Lord Varnek Dhal dreamed of gold and absolute power.
The dream shattered when a servant's voice cracked through his suffocatingly warm bedchamber like a whip.
"My lord! Wake up! Please, my lord, wake up!"
Varnek's eyes snapped open. He was a massive man, thick with muscle and fat, his face flushed from too much expensive wine and too little sleep. His silk sleeping clothes clung to his sweating skin, stained with the grease of last night's feast. He glared at the trembling servant with the raw rage of a man pulled from paradise.
"What in the hells do you want, you sniveling bastard?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl. "If this is not a matter of life and death, I will tie you to a post and leave you in the salt flats until your eyes dry out."
The servant collapsed to his knees, his forehead pressing into the stone floor. "My lord, the water! The private reservoir! It has turned black! It smells like... like an open grave, my lord!"
Varnek's blood ran cold. He threw off his heavy silk covers and leaped from the bed. His bare feet slapped against the cold stone floors as he charged through the dim corridors, shoving panicked servants aside, his thick beard wild.
He burst into the water cave—a heavily guarded, natural limestone cavern beneath his estate that held his absolute monopoly on the district. The smell hit him like a physical blow.
It was the stench of rotting meat, of backed-up sewers, of something ancient that had crawled into the dark to die.
Roaring in fury, he grabbed the nearest guard by the throat, lifting the man to his toes and slamming him against the damp rock wall. "What happened here? Why is my wealth reduced to filth? Speak, or I will crush your windpipe!"
The soldier gagged, his eyes bulging in terror. "I don't know, my lord! We stood watch all night! The doors were locked! No one came near, I swear it to the gods!"
Varnek threw him to the dirt. The soldier collapsed, hacking and coughing.
"This is the work of Baron Keldric Marr," Varnek spat, his face purple with rage. "That weeping snake is always trying to undercut my prices. I will beat him until his own mother turns away in disgust."
He spun around, roaring orders into the echoing cavern. "Bring me my armor! My greatsword! Rouse the men! We march on Keldric's estate right now!"
Servants scrambled like frightened mice to dress him. Heavy iron plates, black as charcoal, were strapped over his thick frame. He belted his massive sword to his waist and stormed out of his estate. Thirty of his personal, highly paid mercenaries fell into formation behind him, their drawn swords gleaming in the early morning light.
The sun was still bleeding over the horizon, casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked, dusty streets of Kohrnes.
But as Varnek marched his men down the main road, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened.
Something was wrong.
Children—filthy, thin, wearing threadbare rags—were playing in the middle of the street. They were laughing. They were splashing each other with water. Clean, crystal-clear water. They threw it into the air as if it were worthless, letting the precious drops soak into the dead dust.
Varnek marched toward the nearest child, a fragile boy of perhaps eight years, and seized him by his thin arm. The boy let out a sharp cry of pain.
"Where did you get this, you little rat?" Varnek's voice was pure ice. "Tell me whose well you robbed, or I will snap your arm like a twig."
The boy's face twisted in sheer terror, tears spilling down his dirty cheeks.
"Let him go!" a woman screamed, throwing herself toward the massive lord. She snatched her son and dragged him behind her skirt, shielding him with her body. "Don't you touch my child!"
Varnek rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. "Did you steal from my estate, woman? Tell me the truth, or I will have your entire bloodline executed in the square."
The woman did not cower. She looked up at the towering, armored noble with eyes that had survived too much starvation to fear one more bully.
"We didn't steal your rotting water," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "We bought this."
Varnek let out a harsh, ugly laugh. "Bought it? How could a street rat afford that much water? You have enough in those buckets to last a month. That would cost a hundred silver, at least."
The woman smiled. It was a cold, victorious smile.
"We bought it from Lord Soren. One single copper coin for as much as we could carry."
Varnek's face went completely rigid. "Soren? Who in the hells is Soren? I will butcher this 'Soren' as soon as I am done with you."
He shoved the woman aside, his armor clanking loudly as he marched toward the heart of the city, his soldiers struggling to keep up with his furious pace.
The central square of Kohrnes had transformed into a river of humanity.
Thousands of men, women, and children stood in massive, winding lines that stretched down every alleyway. They carried leather skins, clay pots, wooden buckets—anything that could hold liquid. There was no rioting. There was no begging. They were waiting with a patient, unbreakable hope that Varnek had never seen in this dead city.
Varnek's heavily armed guards tried to brutally shove through the masses to clear a path.
"Get back! Make way for Lord Varnek! Move, you peasants!"
A man at the front of the line—a broad-shouldered farmer with a nasty scar across his cheek—stepped out and planted his feet, blocking the heavily armored guards.
"Do not break this line, you arrogant pig," the farmer growled, his hand resting on a heavy iron wrench, "or I will smash your teeth down your throat."
The soldiers hesitated, shocked by the sudden defiance. Before they could draw their blades, a violent commotion erupted behind Varnek.
Baron Keldric Marr violently pushed his way through the crowd. The baron was a thin, weasel-like man with sharp, narrow eyes and a nose that curved like a hawk's beak. He wore expensive red silk robes, but they were wrinkled and hastily tied.
"Varnek!" Keldric shrieked, pointing a trembling finger.
One of Keldric's guards grabbed the scarred farmer by the collar, raising a mailed fist to strike him down for being in the way.
"I wouldn't do that."
The voice cut through the noise of the square like a blade. Everyone froze.
A tall man stepped out from the shadow of the pump. It was the City Commander, the absolute head of the city's military guard. He wore his heavy imperial armor, but strapped to his back was a massive, brimming water skin. His face was weathered stone, his eyes dead and cold.
Keldric's eyes darted wildly. "Commander? What is the meaning of this? Do I not pay you enough? Do I not send you enough water? Arrest this peasant immediately!"
The Commander let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
"Your water? Your water is poison, Baron. You sent my men nothing but toxic sludge today. Lord Soren, however, provided fresh water for every single soldier under my command. For free."
He reached into his breastplate, pulled out a thick, folded piece of parchment, and held it up for the nobles to see. It bore a glowing, golden seal.
"I signed a contract," the Commander said coldly. "As long as my men protect his iron pumps, the city guard drinks for free. So, if you want water, get to the back of the line. If not, move your fat asses out of my square."
Keldric's pale face drained of whatever color it had left.
Before the nobles could process the betrayal, a loud shout echoed from the northern district.
"Lord Soren has opened another pump in the North Ward! Go! There is plenty for all!"
The crowd surged like a tidal wave. Hundreds of people broke from the central line and sprinted north. The sheer force of the stampede knocked Baron Keldric Marr and his guards completely off their feet. Keldric hit the dirt hard, his pristine red robes staining with mud, his hands scraping against the rough stone.
"What kind of cursed nightmare is this?" Keldric muttered, coughing on the dust. "Who is this Soren?"
Varnek grabbed a passing citizen by the collar, lifting the man off his feet. "Who is he?! Speak!"
The man violently twisted out of Varnek's grip. "He is the son of Duke Somer! The heir of the Sun! He is the Merciful One who saves the thirsty!"
Varnek stood frozen as the man ran off. He turned to look at Keldric, who was slowly climbing back to his feet, his face twisted with pure, helpless fury.
"My reservoirs smell like a rotting corpse as well," Keldric hissed, dusting off his ruined silk. "I thought it was your doing. I came here to cut your throat. But I see there is a new snake in our garden."
Varnek's breathing was heavy. "How is he doing it? Where is the water coming from?"
"I have spies," Keldric said grimly. "He pulls it straight from hell, deep underground, using some twisted iron machine. I thought he only had the resources to build one. But now he has two. And from the sound of the streets... he is building more."
The thin baron looked up at Varnek, all previous hatred between them forgotten in the face of total ruin. "We have to break those machines, Varnek. Today. If the sun sets and he is still pumping, our monopoly is dead. We will be begging in the streets by winter."
Varnek extended his massive, gauntleted hand. "A truce, then. We are lords of this city. He is just a boy playing a dangerous game. Together, we will crush him into the dirt."
Keldric grabbed his hand. "Let us go meet this 'Merciful' Lord Soren."
They pushed their way through the suffocating crowds, finally reaching the eastern wall.
Another massive line of citizens was gathered around two gleaming iron pumps. The water gushed out in endless, clear torrents, splashing onto the cracked earth.
Varnek watched as a tiny girl skipped away from the pump, holding a dripping wooden cup in her hands, a massive smile on her face. Varnek stepped in her path, his shadow swallowing her.
"Hey, rat," he grunted. "How much did you pay for that?"
The little girl looked up, unafraid. "Nothing. Lord Soren gave it to me. He said the water is free for kids and old people."
Varnek let her run off. He turned to Keldric, his mind struggling to understand the sheer stupidity of the business model. "Free? Is the boy braindead? There are forty thousand peasants in Kohrnes, and half of them are children or elders. He will bankrupt himself by nightfall!"
Keldric's narrow eyes darkened with sudden, terrifying realization. "You fool. He isn't playing for silver. Look at them."
Varnek looked. He saw the way the people looked at the pumps. He saw the devotion in their eyes. He saw the heavy iron tools the men held in their hands, ready to kill anyone who tried to stop the flow.
"He has branded himself 'The Merciful,'" Keldric whispered, genuine fear creeping into his voice. "He is buying an army. If we try to break those pumps now, this entire city will rip us apart with their bare hands to protect him. They don't just love him, Varnek. They worship him."
Another booming voice echoed from the heart of the city.
"Three more pumps open in the Merchant District! Lord Soren provides!"
The crowd roared in joy, surging once more like a massive river, abandoning the eastern wall to rush toward the center of Kohrnes.
Varnek ran.
He didn't march. He didn't order his guards. He simply ran in blind panic.
His heavy iron plates felt like a furnace. His legs burned, his chest heaved, and sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. He shoved violently through the roaring masses, desperate to reach the center of the city before his empire was entirely erased from existence.
When he finally broke through into the central square, his knees gave out. He collapsed into the mud.
The square was packed with thousands of citizens. They were weeping, laughing, drinking deeply, and falling to their knees to thank the young man standing calmly beside the hissing iron machines.
Varnek knew it was over. In a matter of hours, a lifetime of brutal conquering, hoarding, and ruthless business had been completely atomized.
He pressed his heavy hands into the wet mud, gasping for air like a dying fish.
Then, a cool shadow fell over him.
Varnek slowly looked up.
A young man stood over him, holding a pristine glass of freezing, clear water. The boy's hair was the color of spun gold, falling elegantly around a face that looked like it belonged to a god. His eyes—piercing, radiant, and utterly hollow—stared down at the ruined lord. He wore a simple, immaculate white tunic embroidered with a golden sun.
His smile was gentle. Too gentle.
"Please," the young man said, his voice smooth and melodic. He extended the glass downward. "Drink. No one in my city should have to suffer thirst."
Varnek stared at the glass. He saw the condensation dripping down the crystal. Then he looked at the boy's flawless, aristocratic face.
Something inside the warlord snapped.
"Who in the darkest hells do you think you are?!" Varnek roared.
He swung his armored fist, slapping the glass out of the boy's hand. It shattered violently against the cobblestones, the precious, freezing water soaking instantly into the dirt.
Soren did not flinch. His golden smile did not waver a fraction of an inch.
"I am Soren, of the Sun Family," he whispered softly, so only Varnek could hear. "The merciful savior of this city."
Driven by pure, blind hatred, Varnek lunged forward. His massive, gauntleted hands wrapped around Soren's throat, squeezing with enough force to crush a normal man's windpipe.
"I will kill you!" Varnek screamed, spit flying from his lips. "I will snap your golden neck and feed your corpse to the wild dogs!"
"My lord! Let him go!" a voice bellowed from the crowd.
Varnek froze, his breath hitching. He looked around.
The square had gone dead silent. The laughing had stopped. The drinking had stopped.
Thousands of people had turned to face him. Every man, every woman, every child was staring at the armored noble whose hands were wrapped around their savior's throat.
There was no fear in their eyes. There was only a cold, dark, collective hunger. Varnek realized, with a sickening drop in his stomach, that he was no longer looking at peasants. He was looking at a pack of starving wolves that had finally cornered their prey.
Varnek's hands began to tremble. His grip loosened.
He looked back into Soren's golden eyes. The boy wasn't choking. He wasn't afraid.
Soren was perfectly calm, waiting patiently for the warlord to realize that the trap had finally snapped shut.
Varnek dropped his hands and stumbled backward, entirely surrounded.
The crowd did not move. They simply watched him, their hands tightening around their iron tools.