Downfall

Jarathia | City Outskirts | Eat And Smith | The Next Day

The bell above the door jingles. Torvea steps inside, arm crudely stitched, an eyepatch strapped across his face. His body trembles, but his grin is wide.

Jenna freezes, a tray in her hands. Tyreese nearly drops the hammer from his calloused grip.

“Why so shocked?” Torvea teases.

Jenna’s eyes glow faint green as she presses a trembling hand to his stomach. Healing light flickers—then dies. The wound remains.

“Why—” her voice cracks.

Torvea pats her head gently. “You’re sweet, Jenna. But I overdid it. The general was… strong.”

Tyreese sees it then. The contact lens slips, revealing a deep crimson eye burning with unnatural light. His breath catches.
“That’s not just red… it’s blood red. You’ve been hiding it.”

Torvea nods, unashamed. “My death is coming soon. I wanted more time… but if I go, I’ll go with one last speech.”

He turns back toward the door, each step heavy, final.

“I am a child of the mines.”

Jenna and Tyreese stare, helpless, as Torvea leaves the warmth of the shop for the fate awaiting outside.

His last words linger like smoke.
“Farewell, my friends.”

Jarathia | Jarathia City| City Center

Torvea stands tall on the wooden podium, coat swaying faintly in the breeze.

Before him, the crowd splits like a river against a rock.
On one side: kind faces, hopeful faces, those who still believe.
On the other: sneers, furrowed brows, the restless murmur of anger.

He raises his voice.

“My people. Hard times are upon us. But if we hold on to each other, if we build with each other, we can endure. We can prevail—”

A nobleman interrupts, his voice sharp and venomous. “You squandered our coin! Health insurance? Treatments? Bah! Why waste our taxes when healing magic is much cheaper?”

Murmurs ripple through the mass. Workers shift uneasily, anger flares up—not at the nobles, but at Torvea.

One mineworker bellows, voice cracking: “You forbid us our overtime! We don’t fear the Red Dust! We need the coin to care for our families, Mayor!”

Torvea only grins grimly. He slides the contact lens from his eye, revealing the burning red eye beneath. The sight silences some, but emboldens others.

A young noble steps forward from the throng. Pimples dot his smug face, his golden suit flashing in the daylight. Jonath. At his side, a fur-draped girl—Jinnra—smirks knowingly.

Jinnra’s voice drips with scorn. “So this is why you poured our taxes into ‘research!’ Red Dust. The so-called sickness… Where is it? I see no sickness here.”

Torvea’s voice hardens. “Every fight—every safeguard—”

Jonath cuts in. “Nowhere! It’s all lies! Look around! Only a few coughs, from weaklings! The rest are fine. You wasted resources!”

Torvea exhales, heavy. “Jarathia is not the city alone. There are villages in the forests, as well as the outskirts!—”

Jonath snaps back, eyes gleaming. “AND YET THEY ARE NOT HERE!”

The crowd mutters, some nodding, some frowning.

Then Rizario steps into view, grin curling like a dagger. “Torvea. I hear you refused Alpas’ help. They extended their hand in alliance, and you spat on it. Without consulting the people? Will you make all the choices for us now?”

Torvea’s jaw tightens. “Rizario. Hold your tongue.”

“No,” Rizario smirks, “it is my right to speak my mind! Freedom of speech—and I will not be silenced!”

The murmurs grow into arguments, shouts clashing, voices drowning out one another. Rage and suspicion swirl like storm clouds.

Torvea closes his eye. His chest aches, but he steels himself.

“LISTEN!”

The word cracks like thunder, silencing the square. He raises his voice, deep and commanding.

“Jarathia must remain independent! Without independence, our wellbeing is erased. Our balance is broken. If we show weakness, they will use us. Burn us. Crush us!”

His lone eye sweeps across the restless mass.

“Right now, all are enemies. But we have enough—we have homes, no hunger, stable trade! If we endure, if we just hold out—then someday… someday SOON, we will build true wealth and bonds! We will stand as a nation in full, with knowledge, with inventions, with minds open and free! That is our future!”

But his words hit their walls.

In the front rows, citizens glance at their polished watches, their new trinkets. They frown, bored, impatient. Others scowl, muttering about coin, about hours, about taxes.

Yet behind them—eyes shine. Young men and women stand straighter. Mothers clutch their children with new resolve. A few tears glimmer.

But rage festers faster than hope on the closer side.

One by one, angry people surge forward. They climb the stage, fists shaking. Their anger drowns his words.

Torvea’s voice booms still, but it is swallowed by the rising flood from his own folk.

“…Our future… it’ll be ours… if we only—”

The roar of the angry crowd drowns out everything. Torvea’s voice, his pleas, his warnings—swallowed by anger, the other civilians doing nothing to stop it. Not holding the angry mob at bay at all.

Then, from within the mass of bodies, a young man pushes forward. His face is blank, hollowed by hunger and despair, etched with the invisible scars of a collapsing economy. In his trembling hand—steel glints.

Before anyone can react, the blade plunges into Torvea’s chest.

Once.
Twice.
Again.

Over and over, rage unleashed without thought, blood spraying across the wooden podium, dripping down the green coat of the mayor.

Gasps tear through the square. Some scream. Some are in shock. Others go silent, watching with horror.

But Torvea does not strike back.

Instead, he pulls the boy into an embrace. His great frame folds around the attacker like a father shielding his child.

His voice, though ragged, remains steady.
“…have ossibilities… we must only fight for the future. Even if my life ends here, I will always… stand for you.”

The boy’s face pales. His hands tremble, the knife slipping from his grasp. His eyes widen as he realizes what he has done.

Torvea’s strength fails, his knees buckling. Blood pours freely now, pooling beneath him. Yet he still speaks, forcing every last breath into words for his people.

“Jarathia… is more than wealth… more than greed. You have infinite potential. Don’t let them twist it into hatred.”

The square falls still. Even the angriest voices falter, stunned by the sight of their mayor—dying, yet smiling at them with care.

Torvea collapses at last, body unable to endure anymore. His voice fades beneath the sobs of his people, but still he speaks on. “I… wanted to protect you all… but my time… is over…”

Tears streak down his bloodstained face as he falls to his side.

Then, with one final breath, he forces a cry that echoes across the square:

“JARATHIA! LIVE—BE PROUD! STAND TALL!”

The people freeze. The attacker crumbles to his knees, shaking violently, tears streaming as he clutches his bloody hands.

Torvea pulls him close one last time, whispering only for him:
“They played with your emotions… you carry no guilt…”

The boy breaks, sobbing into Torvea’s chest as the mayor’s body grows cold.

Silence spreads over the square.

The people of Jarathia are shocked—unable to comprehend what has happened.

Only at the edges, the nobles stand unmoved. Rizario watches, expression calm, unashamed. Jinnra and Jonath smirk faintly. Monroe hides her yawning mouth behind a jeweled hand.