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Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

Silvano took the gift with a gracious smile, his fingers gently unwrapping the cloth to reveal the berries. He lifted one to his lips, popping it into his mouth as he savored the burst of sweetness, the dark berry juice staining his lips ever so slightly. He chuckled softly, eyes twinkling with genuine amusement.

“Ah, what a delightful treat this is, indeed,” Silvano purred, his voice rich and smooth, with an old-world charm that carried the grace of another time. His gaze remained steady on Calamite, though there was something calculating beneath the surface, something carefully measured. “Your kindness never fails to surprise. A gift such as this, though not imbued with the magic of herbs, speaks of a heart that knows how to brighten a soul even in small ways.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. “Though, truly, it is the intention behind it that makes it shine—’tis a rare thing, kindness freely given without expectation...”

Silvano allowed his eyes to wander around Calamite’s shop—his fingers tapping gently against the counter in a rhythmic, almost languid motion. His smile lingered, polite but watchful.

“It truly is remarkable, what you’ve accomplished here.” His voice softened, carrying the faintest trace of awe, though his eyes belied something more probing. “The resilience you’ve shown—building this haven anew after such devastation—’tis no small feat. The flood has done its damage, yet here you stand, your work flourishing.” He tilted his head slightly, feigning admiration. “Why, I remember when I first saw you here—a year ago, tending to the store, holding your ground. You had a fire in you then, yes, but… I noticed something.”

His smile grew sly, more calculating. “There were… slip-ups.” His voice dropped an octave, a subtle edge slipping beneath the surface. “Weaknesses, beginning to show. And as someone who strongly believes in community—someone who wishes to help others rise—I, of course, wanted to offer what I could.”

Silvano’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his charm never wavering. Yet, beneath the mask, his tone hinted at something darker—the offer wasn’t as innocent as it seemed.

“But yet, you denied them.” He let out a soft sigh, shaking his head. “I was a little hurt. But, of course, I understood. Sometimes, one needs more time. And here we are—another year has passed, and look at you now! Your shop is a bustling stop, your goods commanding top coin. Truly, you’ve built something great—something that’s earned you respect from the traders, no doubt.”

Silvano’s voice dipped into a smoother, more persuasive tone, though his eyes never left Calamite. “But you must realize… times are shifting. The world outside these walls is not as kind as it was in the beginning. Disruptions happen—floods, raids, canal blockages—things that threaten your business, that threaten your people. It’s easy for misfortune to strike when least expected.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly, his expression shifting into something darker. “And yet, it could be prevented. By those who understand the ebb and flow of trade. Who can foresee what others cannot… who can ensure that your routes remain clear. Protected.”

Silvano’s voice dropped again, his tone heavier now, more serious. “Imagine—protection. My services aren’t just about goods or favors, but something greater. Something that ensures stability. No more worrying about blockades, no more sudden crashes that turn your boats away. I can offer you… security.” His eyes locked onto Calamite’s, cold yet measured. “It’s an opportunity you’ve passed up before, but perhaps now… you see things differently.”

He allowed a moment of silence to settle between them, his gaze unwavering, gauging Calamite’s response. The charm had faded, replaced by something sharper—an offer wrapped in veiled threats, subtle enough for now, but clear enough for those paying attention to read between the lines.
 
Calamite nodded thoughtfully, his eyes glinting with the spark of a historian about to share a treasured tale. "You know, Silvano, there’s a story about 'The Barren' that might resonate with our current discourse. It wasn’t always called The Barren, you see. It was once the thriving capital of the Iron Legion, ruled by a young coyotekin king, not unlike myself, barely eighteen summers to his name."

He leaned back, his voice taking on the tone of a seasoned storyteller. "Into this lively court came an advisor—a magic fox from the Arcane Enclave, who promised riches, protection, and expansive conquests. This fox, endowed with powers unseen by our kind at that time, quickly became a pivotal figure in the realm, advising on matters of war, politics, and economy."

Calamite paused, his expression turning somber. "Under the fox's guidance, the Iron Legion set sail to expand their territories. But when they returned, they found their homeland transformed into a wasteland. What was once verdant was now rust, the soil barren, life extinguished. The fox’s promises had led to desolation. The buildings still stand abandoned, a ghostly reminder of misplaced trust."

He fixed Silvano with a steady, meaningful look. "The old tales say, sometimes when a fox spots a chicken coop, it steals eggs one by one, avoiding confrontation. I thought by offering the eggs alone, I wouldn’t need to let the fox inside the coop. But if you intend to force your way regardless, you might find the nest already empty."

Calamite's tone was calm but firm, the allegory clear. "I value your offer, Silvano, as one values a well-intended advice. But like the coyotekin king, I must consider the health of my domain first. I trust in the open exchange and the community we’ve built here, not in shadows that whisper of protection. You’re a respected visitor in my shop, and that respect remains, as long as the story between us remains one of mutual respect, not overreaching ambition."
 


Silvano nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he absorbed Calamite's words. "A lesson well-heeded, truly. Stories like that... they always remind me of the delicate balance we all tread. But you’re right, of course. It’s your kingdom, and you must protect it as you see fit."

He reached out, plucking a small sprig of rosemary from a display and twirling it between his fingers. "I only hope that, when the balance tips, you remember who offered you the means to steady it."

Without waiting for a reply, he placed the rosemary back and strode to the door, his cloak billowing slightly as he turned. "Good day, Calamite. I look forward to seeing how your story unfolds."

Silvano exited the shop, irritation simmering beneath his composed demeanor. He stepped into his modest gondola-like boat, his sharp eyes briefly scanning the surrounding area. With practiced ease, he pushed off, guiding the vessel into the waterway. The sun cast long shadows as he rowed leisurely through the canals, nodding politely to familiar faces. The facade of a charismatic trader never faltered, even as his mind churned with calculated plans.

He steered toward a darker section of the city, where the remnants of the tsunami’s destruction still lingered. Beneath the shadow of an ancient bridge, the air grew colder, and the scenery became more desolate. Pools of stagnant water glistened among crumbled stonework and shattered beams, the remains of the slums long since abandoned by all but the most desperate. Parents warned their children about this place, and those who lingered here were whispered about in fearful tones.

Silvano guided his boat into a side tunnel resembling the entrance to a sewer. Fires flickered in makeshift camps, casting eerie shadows on the damp walls. Shifty figures moved about, eyes glinting in the low light. Despite their hostility toward intruders, none dared to approach Silvano. His reputation preceded him, and even the boldest knew better than to test his patience.

He docked his boat at a narrow ledge and stepped off, his boots clicking on the wet stone. Moving with confident purpose, he made his way through the tunnels, eventually arriving at a dimly lit encampment. A massive, ragged figure sat beside a smoldering fire—a bearkin with patches of mangy fur and scars crisscrossing his hulking frame. His chipped claws rested idly on his knees, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

"Dear friend," Silvano began with a charming lilt, his voice carrying a dangerous undertone. "Up for a task?"

The grizzly bearkin shifted, his lips curling into a low growl. "Need to send a message?"

Silvano’s expression darkened, the charm in his tone replaced by cold authority. "Calamite’s Cupboard. Coyotekin. Make the message clear. You’ve done well in the past, and I trust you won’t disappoint now."

He retrieved a canvas sack, the faint clink of gold coins within audible as he handed it to the bearkin. The massive paw accepted it, the weight of the payment unmistakable. The bear nodded once, his eyes glinting with understanding.

"Good," Silvano said, the edge of a smirk playing on his lips as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows.

-
Night had settled heavily over the city, shadows stretching long and dark as the moon hung low in the sky. Silvano’s message had been delivered, unmistakable in its reach—his influence lingered, ever present. Now, it would make its mark.

Figures loomed in the distance, watching as Calamite carefully turned the sign to 'CLOSED' and flicked the lights off, preparing to close his shop. They moved with the quiet, predatory stillness of hunters. The grizzly bearkin led the group, his form casting a long, dark silhouette as he lingered near the edge of the street, claws glinting faintly in the moonlight. Two smaller shapes followed—ratkin, slinking low to the ground, their sharp eyes fixed intently on the storefront.
Without hesitation, the bearkin reached for the door. The old hinges groaned in protest as he wrenched it open with ease, the shop’s delicate peace instantly shattered. The door slammed against the wall, shaking the wood and echoing through the quiet space.

"Hey there, pal—how’s it going?" One of the ratkin sneered, voice thin and sharp, cutting through the silence.

“We’re here for... some business,” the other chimed in, sneering just as maliciously.

The bearkin, however, stayed silent, his dull eyes scanning the shop as if taking stock of every item, every corner. In one sudden, deliberate motion, he lunged forward with a guttural roar, his massive paw swiping at a shelf, sending glass and small objects crashing to the floor—liquids spilled, fragile items shattered. The air grew heavy with the sound of destruction.

The rats, as if on command, erupted into maniacal laughter, their movements swift and erratic as they darted around the shop like feral wolves. Climbing onto shelves, knocking over jars, tossing trinkets, upending displays—all chaos. The bearkin loomed over Calamite, his presence a looming threat, but never once did he physically touch him. His mere size and stoic glare were enough to instill fear.

“Enough!” the bear’s deep, guttural voice broke through the madness. The rats immediately ceased their frenzy, dropping what they had been doing, leaving behind a mess of broken glass and spilled contents.

The bear fixed his gaze on Calamite, his expression hard and unforgiving. “You made a choice earlier. Choices have consequences.” His voice rumbled with quiet menace.

Reaching into his tattered cloak, the bear pulled out a heavy pouch and, with deliberate slowness, emptied it onto the counter—silver coins spilling across the surface, glinting faintly in the dim light. Enough to cover the damage, a clear warning.

“This is your warning.” He growled, his voice cold. “Next time, there won’t be any mercy. This shop will be nothing but rubble.”

"And if you try to report anything? Old Snaggle-Face would just love to pay you a personal visit..." The rat sneered, glancing toward the bearkin, who growled menacingly at Calamite.

The three made their way out of the shop, ready to disappear again.
 
CALAMITE POV:
After the intruders had left, Calamite stood alone amidst the wreckage of his shop. Each step he took crunched on broken glass and crushed herbs, the air thick with the scent of spilled potions and the sharper tang of his own rage. His shop, once a place of refuge and delight, now mirrored his turmoil—chaotic, violated, exposed.

The pouch of silver coins glinted mockingly from the counter, a crude payment for the night's terror. Calamite stared at it, each coin a stark reminder of his vulnerability. With a grimace, he pushed the pouch aside, the clink of the silver harsh in the silent shop.

Breathing deeply, trying to steady the storm within, Calamite began to pick up a broom. As he swept, each stroke was a small attempt to restore order, to reclaim some control over his shattered sanctuary. But the damage was more than physical; it was a clear message, and one he could not ignore.

Pausing in his efforts, Calamite leaned heavily on his broom, his gaze drifting towards the darkened doorway through which Silvano had disappeared. The moonlight cast long shadows into the shop, the night quiet except for the distant sounds of the city's nightlife.

"What now?" he murmured aloud, not really expecting an answer but feeling the weight of the question.
--- (NEXT DAY)
LEVIANTHIAN POV:

The morning light filtered through the high windows of the Iron Clad Legion's headquarters in Unity City, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Leviathian, standing at the head of the strategy table, listened intently as his trusted lizardkin guards, Soviet and Rum, reported on the latest city gossip that had reached their ears.

Soviet, the larger of the two, leaned on his mace, his muscular tail flicking impatiently. His deep voice carried a natural gruffness, reflecting his straightforward and often brusque demeanor. "There's talk in the market, boss," he rumbled. "Something went down at Calamite's shop last night. Shoppers this morning were all whispers and sideways glances. Said the place looked like a storm had hit indoors."

Rum, standing slightly behind his brother, adjusted the strap on his shield and nodded in agreement. His leaner build and the cold, calculating look in his eyes contrasted with Soviet's brute force approach. "Indeed," he added, his tone more measured and analytical. "The details are sketchy, but it seems something more than a simple burglary. They mentioned a show of force, something deliberate."

Leviathian's brow furrowed as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Calamite hasn't sent any official word, you say? That's unusual. He's not one to shy away from seeking help if he needs it."

Sensing a potential threat—or an opportunity—Leviathian made a swift decision. "Soviet, Rum, I want you two to go down there. Talk to the shopkeeper. Find out what really happened. And keep your eyes open; we don't need more surprises."

Soviet nodded, his grip tightening around the handle of his mace, a silent promise of readiness for whatever they might face. "We'll handle it, boss. If there's trouble stirring, we'll sniff it out."

Rum's expression remained unreadable, but his mind was already racing through possible scenarios, always thinking two steps ahead. "We'll assess the situation and report back. If there's an undercurrent we've missed, we'll find it."
---
ZIFRAA POV:
In the labyrinth of waterways that now formed the flooded cityscape, Zifraa met with the ratkin assessor aboard a gently rocking boat, tucked away in one of the quieter canals. The boat was cluttered with tools and ancient texts, the air thick with the scent of moldy paper and damp wood. The box with painted handprints lay between them on a makeshift table, a beacon of mystery in the dim light provided by lanterns swaying with the boat's gentle motions.

The ratkin, a sharp-eyed individual with a knack for the arcane and obscure, peered closely at the box. “Zifraa, this isn’t just any artifact. Those handprints are a form of old magic, likely tied to the creators’ bloodline. Finding a way in could be more about who rather than how,” she explained, her gaze flicking up to meet Zifraa’s.

“But there’s another concern,” the assessor continued, lowering her voice as she glanced around to ensure no prying ears were nearby. “Silvano has been tightening his grip on trade routes, particularly around the parts of the city where items like this might pass through. If his people see this, they might take it, fearing what it could unleash or hold.”

Zifraa’s ears perked up at the mention of Silvano, her lips curling into a frown. “Silvano... truly a thorn,” she muttered, her fingers tapping against the side of the boat, "two years of trying to figure out how to open this damn thing."

The ratkin nodded, her eyes serious. “Exactly. And given Silvano’s influence, it’s not just about finding the key but also moving it discreetly. He has eyes and ears everywhere. Any wrong move and you might find yourself losing this box to his hands; though he likely doesn't know who can open it either."
----
KAELION POV:
Kaelion, the flamboyantly feathered Avialae, was enjoying a leisurely day of fishing off the dock. As he theatrically cast his line into the water, he suddenly felt a strong tug. "Aha! What mighty creature have I hooked?" he exclaimed, reeling in with gusto. To his embarrassment, he hadn't caught a fish but had accidentally hooked a disgruntled Fishkin. "Oh, my apologies!" Kaelion quickly unhooked the Fishkin, offering a sheepish grin. "Seems I caught a real live one, eh?" he joked, as the Fishkin swam off shaking its head, leaving Kaelion to chuckle at his own mix-up.
 
Silvano’s gondola glided smoothly down the waterway, drawing closer to Kaelion. He observed the scene of Kaelion snagging the Fishkin and allowed a subtle smirk to curve his lips. Once the Fishkin had swum away, Silvano let out a soft, amused chuckle as his boat quietly docked at the wooden docks. He stepped off, his hooves making a soft tapping sound on the weathered wood.

"Ah, still something of an adjustment, isn’t it? The Fishkin becoming more common around these parts," Silvano said, his tone laced with subtle amusement. He strolled up to Kaelion, his arms folded lightly behind his back, his gaze calm yet keen. "Pardon the intrusion, good sir. I happened upon this pleasant scene during my afternoon walk. You seem quite content in your pastime."
 
Kaelion stopped abruptly, his staff held aloft as a sudden thought seemed to capture his entire attention. His eyes sparkled with a wild gleam as he looked at Silvano.

"Oh, the Fishkin!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying a tone of mock revelation. "Marvelous creatures, aren't they? Plump and bustling about. It stirs the appetite, does it not?" He laughed heartily, a sound that teetered on the edge of sanity. "Sometimes, I wonder... what would it be like? Just a small bite, perhaps?"

He went on, "Imagine it! A grand feast beneath the moon, where not just the fish, but Fishkin grace our tables. Forbidden, yes, but oh—what a tale it would tell! They say everything tastes better when it's just a bit... naughty. Don't you think? The thrill of the forbidden fruit—or fish, in this case!" He cackled, shaking his head with glee at the thought.

"Ah, but we jest, do we not?" Kaelion continued, suddenly straightening.
 
Silvano tilts his head slightly, his expression curious but wary. "Fascinating indeed... though such thoughts can easily lead down darker paths. Perhaps it’s best to keep them as idle musings, lest they take on lives of their own.” He pauses for a moment, his gaze flickering with a mix of curiosity and caution, before shifting the conversation smoothly. “But tell me, what else occupies your time these days? I imagine you’ve found more than just fish to entertain yourself around here.”
 
Kaelion's eyes shimmered with a gleeful energy as he bounced from topic to topic. "After the tsunami, the urge to fly was strong—imagine, soaring away from all this! But the fish, oh, the unique culinary delights kept me tethered here. Who could leave such flavors behind?"

His voice suddenly sharpened, the jovial tone turning brittle. "And then, there was the lion—such fiery debates over something as simple as the color green! He sees life, I see the lurking shadows of envy!" His feathers bristled, and his voice grew louder, almost a shout. "Now he shuns me over such a petty disagreement! Can you believe it? Abandoned over a color!"

Just as quickly as his anger flared, Kaelion took a deep breath, visibly calming himself as he smoothed his feathers back into place. His tone softened, returning to its earlier whimsical cadence. "Ah, but life goes on, does it not? We mustn't dwell too long on such spats."

He chuckled, shifting his gaze back to the lighter subjects. "And there’s more to keep one busy, truly. Scavenging wonderful trinkets from the ratkins, transforming their junk into my treasures—it’s quite the adventure. And that book of sound magic washed ashore, a gift from the seas! It’s consumed my days, mixing spells and melodies into something magical."

Kaelion smiled, his mood brightening. "This city, with all its quirks and quandaries, really does capture one's heart, doesn't it?"
 
Silvano quickly saw that while Kaelion seemed well-meaning, he was ultimately quite naive—easy to manipulate. “A book of sound magic, you say? Do you mind if… perhaps I take a look at that? I’m quite the slow reader, you see. It could take me quite some time to go through it—possibly a long-term borrowing.”
 
Kaelion’s eyes gleamed as he leaned in closer, his smile playful and undeniably flirtatious. "Oh, you have such excellent taste. I’d be delighted to lend you the tome—it’s tucked away in my little boathouse on the far side of the city." He twirled his staff lazily, his vibrant feathers ruffling with exaggerated drama. "But, alas, I’m far too tired to fly, cannot swim—and, well, let’s just say the Ironclad and I are no longer on speaking terms. Something about me being too much to handle."

He laughed lightly, leaning just a little closer as he brushed Silvano’s arm with casual confidence. "Lucky for me, you’ve got that handsome gondola all ready to go. Why don’t we take a little ride together? I’ll fetch the book, and you’ll get the pleasure of my dazzling company." He grinned, tilting his head ever so slightly, his voice softening into a teasing purr. "Doesn’t that sound like the best deal you’ve heard all day?"
 
Silvano’s expression dropped like a stone, his usual composed demeanor slipping into something resembling sheer exhaustion. His sharp features flattened into a deadpan glare as he processed Kaelion’s exuberant suggestion. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the silence hang awkwardly in the air before muttering under his breath, “Of course, this is how my day’s going.”

With a forced, tight-lipped smile that barely concealed his frustration, he waved a dismissive hand. "Actually... I'll pass. I just remembered—uh..." His voice faltered for a beat as he searched for an excuse, then settled on something so ludicrous it might actually work. "I just remembered I... don’t know how to read."

Without waiting for Kaelion’s response, Silvano turned on his heel and strode briskly to his gondola. With practiced precision, he untied the mooring and stepped aboard, his movements sharp and deliberate.

“Good luck with the book,” he called back flatly, pushing off from the dock. “And the Ironclad. Sounds like they’re missing out on all that dazzling company.”

With that, he set off down the canal, the rhythmic splash of the oar cutting through the water providing a soothing counterpoint to the chaos he’d just escaped. Never again, he thought to himself.
 
Kaelion watched the gondola drift away, his grin widening as an idea sparked in his mind. "Oh, leaving me so soon? How terribly dull," he mused aloud, twirling his staff with a flourish. "Allow me to send you off in style."

Planting the base of his staff firmly on the dock, he let out a melodic hum, the air around him shimmering faintly. With a dramatic sweep, a wave of sonic energy burst forth, rippling through the canal. The force caught Silvano’s gondola, propelling it forward with startling speed, the water spraying high on either side as it shot down the canal like a bolt of lightning.

Kaelion laughed, the sound ringing out like a bell, as the gondola disappeared into the distance. "Farewell, my fleeting friend! May your travels be swift and suitably chaotic!"

Further down the canal, Soviet and Rum were lazily paddling their small patrol boat toward Calamite’s Cupboard when Silvano’s gondola shot past like a bolt of lightning. The wake nearly capsized their vessel, water sloshing up and over the edges as Soviet scrambled to steady the boat, his mace clanging against the side.

“What in the scales was that?” Soviet growled, his amber eyes wide as he stared after the speeding gondola. His grip on the oar tightened, knuckles visibly straining.

Rum, perched at the bow with his shield resting beside him, squinted at the retreating blur. "Looks like someone got a little too much wind in their sails," he muttered dryly, though his tail flicked with suspicion.
 
Silvano’s hands gripped the sides of the gondola as it rocketed down the canal, his balance wavering as the sudden burst of speed sent him lurching backward. Water sprayed in chaotic arcs, soaking his coat and tail, much to his growing irritation. His usual poise, carefully curated to maintain an air of control, was utterly shattered.

“What in the bloody stars—!” he barked, his voice barely audible over the roaring wake behind him. He craned his neck to glare back at the dock, where Kaelion stood, a vision of feathered mischief. That damned bird had the audacity to laugh!

Silvano cursed under his breath, bracing himself as the gondola skidded and bounced atop the water like a skipping stone. The city’s canals blurred into streaks of color, the once-serene waterways now a chaotic blur. It was not long before he noticed an approaching patrol boat dead ahead, the figures aboard looking more startled by the second.

"Perfect. Just perfect," Silvano muttered through gritted teeth.

With a sharp pull of the oar, he tried to correct his course, the gondola barely missing the patrol boat as it tore past in a spray of water. Silvano caught a brief glimpse of two very angry lizardkin—one clutching a mace, the other with narrowed eyes and a shield at the ready.

“Don’t take it personally!” he shouted over his shoulder, his words likely drowned out by the rush of water.

As the gondola finally began to lose momentum, Silvano exhaled sharply, straightening his soaked coat and ruffling his fur in irritation. He shot a glance behind him, ensuring the patrol boat wasn’t in immediate pursuit.

“Bird-brained doesn’t even begin to describe him,” he muttered, running a hand over his damp face.

At least he was out of Kaelion’s reach for now. Silvano turned his attention back to the canal ahead, plotting his next move. This wasn’t over—not by a long shot.
 
Soviet and Rum paddled steadily toward Calamite’s Cupboard, the wake of the speeding gondola still rippling across the canal. Soviet gripped the oar tightly, his amber eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t just ‘wind in their sails,’” he growled. "Magic did that. Sounded like a wind mage pushing it along.”

Rum adjusted his shield, leaning forward with a thoughtful look. “Magic, yeah. And it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve seen magic cause chaos. Maybe the same kind that tore up the shop? A storm, my tail. Sounds more like a mage with a grudge.”

Soviet snorted, his tail lashing. “Let me guess: Kaelion. Loud, obnoxious, and just the type to stir up trouble with his fancy tricks.”

Rum smirked faintly, his tone dry. “Wouldn’t be a stretch. Magic sends a gondola flying, and suddenly we’re paddling toward a wrecked shop. Doesn’t feel random, does it?”

Their boat bumped gently against the dock outside Calamite’s Cupboard. Soviet tied it off with a sharp flick of his tail, stepping off first with his mace slung over his back. Rum followed, adjusting his shield as he scanned the shop’s open doorway. Inside, the scene was worse than they’d imagined—broken jars, spilled herbs, and shattered glass scattered across the floor.

Soviet stepped inside, his claws clicking against the wooden boards. “Doesn’t look like a storm did this,” he muttered. “Looks like someone tore through here.”

Rum let out a low whistle, leaning casually in the doorway. “A storm mage, maybe?” he suggested. “Would explain the mess.”

Calamite emerged from the back, broom in hand, his green eyes heavy with exhaustion. He leaned the broom against the counter, his expression dark. “Storm mage,” he said bitterly. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Wind magic, strong enough to tear through the shutters and scatter everything inside.”

Soviet raised an eyebrow, glancing at the scattered remains of jars and herbs. “Convenient,” he said, his tone skeptical. “You really think a storm mage came through here?”

Calamite’s tail flicked sharply as he crossed his arms. “What else am I supposed to think? Shelves don’t shatter themselves,” he snapped.

Rum tilted his head, his tone probing. “Did they say anything? A name, a reason? Why a storm mage would be interested in your shop?”

Calamite hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the doorway before he answered. “Sorry, they didn't give a leave a name after destroying my shop."

Soviet stepped closer, his tone hardening. “You’re sure there’s nothing else? Someone you’ve crossed? Someone who might be holding a grudge?”

Calamite bristled, his tail snapping behind him, but he held his ground. “No one. I keep to myself. No debts, no enemies. Just a shop to run and repairs to make.”

Rum raised a hand, his voice calm but firm. “Alright. If this escalates, the Legion needs to know. You don’t want to be dealing with a storm mage or worse on your own.”

Calamite sighed, his shoulders sagging. “If it escalates, I won’t have a shop left to worry about.”

The brothers exchanged a glance, Soviet muttered, “Leviathan said if there was any more trouble with the bird, it was straight to the gallows."

Calamite stiffened, his tail freezing mid-flick as Soviet’s words landed. His sharp green eyes darted between the two brothers, panic flashing across his face. "The gallows?" he repeated, his voice a little too high, the calm veneer cracking. “You mean... you already have a suspect?”

Rum’s sharp gaze caught the shift in Calamite’s demeanor, but he stayed silent, watching closely. Soviet, less subtle, raised an eyebrow. “Leviathian’s orders,” he said with a shrug. “Kaelion’s been on thin ice for a while. If he’s tied to this, the Legion won’t waste time.”

Calamite swallowed hard, the weight of his hastily crafted lie suddenly pressing down on him. “Well, I— I mean, I don’t know it was him,” he stammered, waving his hands as if to push the idea away. “I said storm mage. It could’ve been... anyone! Lots of magic types around, you know? Could’ve been someone passing through—someone completely unrelated!” His voice cracked on the last word, and he immediately regretted it.

Rum tilted his head, his expression unreadable, while Soviet frowned, his tail lashing slowly. “You seemed pretty sure earlier,” Soviet said flatly. “Storm mage, wind magic... loud, destructive. That sounds like Kaelion to me.”
 
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Silvano guided his boat into the narrow slum tunnels, the rhythmic drip of water echoing around him. His soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to his fur as he docked the boat, tying it off with a practiced knot. Shaking his body to fling off some of the water, he sighed in frustration—he’d be damp for hours.

The familiar path through the tunnels was lit by scattered bonfires, their glow casting flickering shadows on the slum dwellers who lingered nearby. They watched Silvano pass but didn’t stop him, some nodding in acknowledgment, others silently stepping aside. He made his way to a patched-up wooden houseboat docked alongside the stone sewer wall, tethered loosely with a thick rope. A narrow plank bridged the gap between the stones and the houseboat’s deck.

Silvano stepped onto the plank with care, the faint creak underscoring the stillness. Reaching the door, he knocked twice, then stepped back, adjusting his coat.

It took a moment before the door cracked open, held in place by an inside latch. A pair of rectangular pupils peered out, the faint glow of the interior lantern reflecting off round glasses.

“Huh? Silvano?” The voice was rough, heavy with years of smoking. “Oh! One minute.”

The door shut again, followed by the sound of several locks clicking open. The door swung wide, revealing Mordecai. The tall, scrawny goat stepped forward, his long, curling horns gleaming faintly in the light. His beard, scruffy and streaked with gray, hung down to his chest, and he leaned heavily on a cane. The houseboat shifted slightly under his weight as he hobbled forward, nearly losing his balance.

“Careful,” Silvano said, stepping in to steady him, his hand catching Mordecai’s arm.

“Ah, thank you,” Mordecai said with a small nod of gratitude.

Silvano led them to a makeshift sitting area on the deck. Wooden stools surrounded a low table, illuminated by the warm glow of a lantern. A cloth tarp overhead offered a semblance of shelter from the ever-present dampness of the tunnels.

“Good to see you again,” Mordecai said, easing himself onto a stool. His smile was genuine, his sharp eyes studying Silvano. “Always a joy when you drop by.”

“And likewise, Mordecai,” Silvano replied, giving a small bow of his head. He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Mordecai’s eyebrows rose slightly, and without a word, he retrieved two glasses from a nearby shelf.

The amber liquid poured smoothly, filling the glasses. They clinked them together with a quiet cheer before taking a drink. Mordecai took a measured sip, while Silvano lingered over his glass, staring into its depths.

Mordecai tilted his head, studying him. “What was it this time?”
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Silvano didn’t answer immediately, draining his glass instead. He set it down with a soft thud and let out a heavy breath, coughing slightly as he caught himself. His fur bristled, damp and disheveled. Without a word, he reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass.

Leaning back on the creaking stool, Silvano swirled the whiskey, watching the liquid catch the light. The warmth it offered did little to settle the growing unease coiling in his chest.

Mordecai watched him in silence, his cane resting against the chair. He tapped a finger lightly on his knee, his gaze steady. It was an unspoken prompt, an invitation for Silvano to speak.

Finally, Silvano sighed, running a hand through his damp fur. “It’s this job,” he muttered. “I did what I had to do. Played the part, pushed the right buttons. But…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “There’s this kid—Calamite. He’s not cut out for this. I shouldn’t care, but this time, it’s different.”

“What makes him different?” Mordecai asked, his tone calm and steady, the rasp in his voice softening the edges.

Silvano’s ears flicked, and his tail twitched against the floorboards. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He’s just trying to get by, same as anyone. But I cornered him, stirred things up for my own ends. Now I can’t stop thinking about the mess I left him in.”

Mordecai let the silence linger, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re feeling guilt,” he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact. “And it’s not the first time, is it?”

Silvano’s jaw tightened. “Does it matter if it is? Guilt doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t change what I’ve done.”

“No,” Mordecai agreed, leaning forward slightly. “But it tells you something about yourself. Guilt is a signal, Silvano. It means you still have lines you don’t want to cross. Boundaries you haven’t given up on. The question is, what do you want to do about it?”

Silvano scoffed, though there was no real heat behind it. “What can I do? Apologize? Clean up the mess? This life doesn’t leave room for second chances.”

Mordecai stroked his beard, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right—second chances don’t come easy. But they do exist, even here. The problem is, they usually cost something. Are you willing to pay that price to keep your conscience intact?”

Silvano frowned, his hands gripping the edge of his stool. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve spent so long surviving, scheming, staying ahead. I’m not sure I even know who I am anymore.”

Mordecai’s smile was faint but knowing. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To figure that out.”

Silvano blinked, caught off guard. He opened his mouth to argue but found no words. Mordecai had a way of cutting through his defenses, seeing past the walls he carefully maintained.

“You know,” Mordecai continued, leaning back with a slow drag from his cigarette, “it’s not weakness to care. It’s not even weakness to regret. But it is weakness to let those feelings paralyze you. You’re smart, Silvano. You know how to play the game. But if you lose sight of yourself, what’s the point?”

Silvano stared down at his empty glass, Mordecai’s words settling over him like a weight. “You make it sound so simple,” he muttered.

“It’s not,” Mordecai said with a faint chuckle. “But neither is surviving. And you’ve managed that just fine.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, the soft lapping of water against the houseboat filling the air. Finally, Silvano stood, slipping the whiskey bottle back into his bag.

“Thanks, Mordecai,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with sincerity.
 
The clanking of Leviathian’s boots echoed ominously through the damp slum tunnels, the sound bouncing off slick stone walls. Dim bonfires lit the labyrinthine paths, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the slum dwellers who stepped aside, their gazes wary but curious. Behind the wolf, Avarice followed with ghostlike precision, his snow-white fur glowing faintly in the firelight. His blind, clouded eyes scanned the scene with unsettling confidence, and the intricate snowflake embroidery on his black robes shimmered faintly as he moved. Hands clasped loosely in front of him, his calm demeanor was almost unnerving, as if he saw far more than he should.

Leviathian stopped in front of a weathered houseboat docked against the stone sewer wall, its rickety plank bridge creaking under the faint motion of the water. The wolf glanced back at Avarice with a frown. “You’re sure this is it?”

Avarice tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Quite sure.”

With a sharp exhale, Leviathian turned his focus back to the houseboat, his deep voice booming through the tunnels. “Silvano! The Iron Clad demands your presence! Come out and face us!” The words echoed sharply in the stillness, broken only by the soft creak of the boat as Avarice stood motionless, his unsettlingly serene expression fixed on the door, waiting.
 
Mordecai steps forward slowly, his cane tapping softly against the creaking plank with Silvano following closely behind. His stance is calm but poised, his sharp gaze never leaving Leviathian’s figure. His tone is smooth, but with a subtle edge—calculated, measured, and laden with intent.

“No need for violence here. We can talk this through. What is it you want from Silvano?” His voice carries an air of false sincerity, but it’s clear there’s something deeper behind his words—an undercurrent of calculated control.

Mordecai’s lips curl slightly into a thin, almost amused smile as he eyes Leviathian with quiet scrutiny. “Wolf… I recognize you. Leviathian… yes… I remember you. I remember those younger years when a strong wolf like yourself approached me in secret—eager, desperate, clawing at the chance to prove himself to The Legion. To climb through the ranks. To be at the top of the pack. I remember that wolf, begging an alchemist—maybe not the most honorable type—but you didn’t care. You begged me for help to bring down your enemies, to show your strength, to dominate. You couldn’t wait even a second. You indulged in that… potion. You indulged in it, didn’t you? And for a moment… just a moment—you became something more. Became something you couldn’t control. Became the beast. Shed blood like no other… innocent blood. The lamb slaughtered by your hand.”

Mordecai’s eyes darken slightly, his voice lowering just enough to add an edge of menace beneath the calm façade. “Do you remember that, Wolf? Do you remember the taste of it—the power you seized through someone else’s formula? But it wasn’t your strength, was it? It never was. It was borrowed. It was manipulated. And now, here you stand, relying on others once again—manipulating Silvano, using him to fulfill your ambitions. Is that it, Leviathian? Still the same desperate wolf, needing someone else to give you what you cannot obtain on your own? Still bleeding, but never fully satisfied…”

Mordecai pauses, letting the words hang, watching Leviathian’s reaction carefully. His cane grips tighter, subtly increasing the tension. His mind sharp and calculating.
 
Leviathian’s growl rumbled low in his throat, his amber eyes narrowing sharply. “I did not come here to be mocked, alchemist, or to listen to your rattled-off stories.” His tail flicked sharply behind him, the tension in his frame palpable.

Before the wolf could say more, Avarice raised a hand, his voice cutting through the moment with practiced calm. “Now, Leviathian, no need to be hostile. We are but guests in this place.” He stepped forward with measured grace, his black robes trailing behind him, their snowflake embroidery catching faint light. His blind eyes, clouded and unseeing, seemed to pierce straight through the space as if observing the world on another plane.

“Forgive me,” Avarice continued smoothly, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “I do not quite have the same lungs as our knightly friend here, and I was afraid you might not hear me. The Iron Clad has no business with you today. Leviathian is merely my guard.”

Leviathian’s sharp gaze remained locked on Avarice as the fox moved forward, his steps deliberate. Despite the calm in his voice, the wolf’s posture remained tense, his watchful eyes flicking down to ensure the fox didn’t stumble on the uneven plank.

“I am here on behalf of the City of Unity council,” Avarice continued, his tone soft yet commanding, “to speak with Silvano. And, of course, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, alchemist. We in the city pride ourselves on listening to those who have walked under many moons.”
 
Mordecai stood still, his cane firmly in hand, his knuckles tightening subtly beneath his grip. The dim glow from the lantern nearby flickered across his face, casting shadows deep under his eyes. He could feel the air thick with tension—the slow, measured steps of Avarice, the wary presence of Leviathian, and Silvano’s growing agitation.

With the sharpness of his gaze, Mordecai took in every detail: the calculated smile on Avarice’s lips, the flicker in his blind eyes, the calculated calm that felt far too rehearsed. But beneath that polished exterior, something darker lingered—an ulterior motive, one that Mordecai was certain was hiding beneath Avarice’s velvet words.

The weight of years spent in dark corners of the world told him to stay vigilant, to trust no one so easily. And yet, Avarice seemed so adept at speaking in riddles and half-truths. How much of this was truth, and how much manipulation?

Without breaking eye contact, Mordecai subtly began to shift his stance, a quiet movement drawing his cane slightly forward. The hollow end of the cane, designed to reveal hidden chambers, sat silently, waiting.

Just as Avarice continued, his voice smooth and composed, Silvano, sharp-eyed as ever, suddenly reached out, his large hand grasping the top of Mordecai’s cane.

“No,” Silvano’s voice cut through the heavy silence—firm, unwavering, but tempered with desperation. “Mordecai, no. I can’t let you.”

Mordecai’s posture stiffened, his body momentarily tense, the firelight flickering across his face betraying a mixture of anger and disbelief. He shot Silvano a glance—cold, calculating, a mix of betrayal and astonishment—his eyes locking onto Silvano’s with intensity.

They stood frozen for a moment, eyes locked in a silent, charged standoff. Silvano’s grip remained firm, a quiet but clear refusal.

Mordecai debated—yank his cane back, force the strike, or follow through on Silvano’s restraint? He could feel the moment teetering, the tension like a razor’s edge. The poison hidden within his cane, the alchemy waiting to unleash, could tip the balance, but Silvano's hand held steady.

With a heavy sigh, Mordecai’s expression softened slightly, his posture loosening as he exhaled and allowed his hand to relax, slowly pulling the cane back into its resting position—a silent surrender to Silvano’s will.

The exchange lasted only a few seconds, but it felt eternal. Silvano gestured slightly, his own eyes steady but hinting irritation beneath his composure.

“Step back, Mordecai. Let me handle this.” His voice carried a quiet authority, almost regal in its calm, yet tinged with something deeper—an edge of defiance. “You stay near the boat. Watch. I will speak with him.”

Mordecai hesitated another beat, the lingering weight of the decision pressing against him. Finally, with a slow shake of his head, he gave a slight nod and stepped back, moving near the rickety houseboat, his eyes never leaving the scene unfolding ahead. He kept his hand close to his side, ready—always ready—to strike, but trusting Silvano’s lead for now.

Silvano, with his donkey-hybrid like tail twitching irritably, moved forward. His gaze remained locked on Avarice, sharp and focused. “Well?” His voice was smooth, but tinged with impatience, his Victorian flair evident in his every word. “You have my attention now. Speak plainly. What is it you desire from me?”
 
"I don't intend to take up much of your time, and I apologize for showing up so unexpectedly," Avarice began, his smooth tone carrying a faint edge of politeness. His blind, clouded eyes seemed to focus directly on Silvano, the faintest curve of a smile playing on his lips. "Though, Silvano, it is nice to finally make your acquaintance. It seems the hand of fate has placed us in opposing positions for some time now—or so it appears. I've heard of your work in the flooded quarters of the city. Admirable, really. Work that, unfortunately, the council itself has been... unable to provide, to say the least."

He paused, his sharp ears flicking toward Leviathian, whose heavy breaths betrayed his close proximity. With a soft sigh, Avarice tilted his head slightly. “Leviathian, please. Give us some privacy, will you? I can hear you breathing.”

Leviathian’s amber eyes flickered with brief embarrassment as he stiffened, then begrudgingly stepped back, his boots clanking against the stone as he retreated out of earshot. Avarice’s posture remained perfectly composed as he continued, his voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial.

“Silvano, my name is Avarice. I am the newest seat-holder on the City of Unity council,” he said, his calm demeanor belying the weight of his next words. “And I find myself in a... difficult situation. Recently, the council has undergone a rather significant shift. Several seats were replaced prior to my entry, and those replacements have been filled by religious zealots—devotees of an ancient faith predating even the dinosaurkin in the far west. They call it the Sunship.”

His tone grew heavier, a flicker of frustration breaking through his practiced calm. “These zealots are... problematic, to put it mildly. I was wondering, Silvano, if you might be open to assisting me with this conundrum. And, of course, I would like to know what you would ask in return.”

Avarice hesitated for just a moment before concluding, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “This is a matter I cannot bring to the Iron Clad Legion as a whole. Internal conflicts, you understand. Sometimes, discretion is the better path.”

Behind him, Leviathian’s jaw tightened, his amber eyes narrowing as he shifted his weight. The subtle flick of his tail betrayed his growing frustration, though he remained silent, his seething presence looming like a storm on the verge of breaking.
 
Silvano sticks his tongue out in a playful, teasing manner at Leviathian as the wolf is asked to leave. "Looks like someone got promoted to guard dog, huh?" he calls after the retreating figure, then chuckles to himself.

Turning his attention back to Avarice, Silvano listens intently as the council member speaks, his mind already spinning with the implications. His ears perk when he hears the mention of the "Sunship."

“Sunship?” Silvano questions, tilting his head in confusion.

“The… Sunship… It can’t be right,” Mordecai murmurs, his smoky voice rasping as his posture tenses slightly in disbelief.

“Mordecai?” Silvano turns to face him, sensing the sudden shift in the alchemist’s demeanor. “You’ve heard of this Sunship?”

Mordecai takes a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he struggles to compose himself. His rectangular pupils flicker with inner turmoil, betraying the calm he tries to maintain. Finally, he lets out a slow, deliberate breath before speaking. “Yes… Yes, I do. The Sunship—an ancient faith. As old as the Dinosaurkin themselves. Not practiced much anymore… or so I thought…”

He pauses, exhaling deeply, his voice growing softer but heavy with experience. “The Sunship teaches that true order and redemption come through discipline and accountability. They believe all beings, animal-kin included, carry flaws that must be corrected—flaws that threaten the balance and natural order. They say justice and suffering aren’t mere punishments, but sacred paths to purification. Their symbol—the burning ship—represents the cleansing of corruption and the rebirth of communities into something ‘virtuous.’”

Mordecai’s eyes darken slightly, and his voice drops, growing more somber. “At the heart of their beliefs is the Solar Scales, an artifact said to weigh the moral worth of individuals. They believe it guides judgments—fair, but merciless. Their rituals include penitence marches, labor offerings… even executions for those who refuse their ‘redemption.’ To them, these acts are sacred, cleansing the land of immorality to restore peace and order.”

He grimaces, the weight of the memory heavy on him. “The Sunship has roots deep in the cities where they’ve carved out power. They shape law and order according to their beliefs, often clashing with anyone who doesn’t align with their rigid view of what’s right. To them, discipline is everything. Their methods are harsh, but they see it as necessary for the greater good.”

Mordecai’s gaze shifts back to Avarice, his posture growing more defensive. “And now they’re moving into the city. I’ve heard whispers… but to think they’ve infiltrated the council now? Their influence may not be dead, but it’s troubling to hear of them rising in power so suddenly.” His voice trails off, his mind racing to process what this could mean for the city—and for those living in its darker corners.

Mordecai sighs, the exhaustion evident in his posture. “I need to… sit…” he weakly coughs. Silvano rushes to his side, steadying him and guiding him to a nearby chair. Mordecai takes a moment to catch his breath before raising his gaze to Avarice. “This is a serious matter.” He then casts a pointed glare at Silvano. “And I urge you to take it seriously, too.”
 
Avarice’s faint smile twisted into something more bitter, his blind eyes fixed in Silvano's direction as though piercing through the space between them. “You see now why I sought your assistance,” he began, his voice steady but with a darker undertone. “The council is no longer what it was. Their influence grows unchecked, and the balance of power has tilted too far.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly, as though contemplating how much to reveal. “There’s a particular figure I must speak of. Ashen. A half-dinosaurkin, half-emu who currently holds significant sway on the council. His charisma and reach make him dangerous, not because he shares the zealots’ faith, but because his ambition aligns with their goals. He believes discipline through spectacle will consolidate his power, and we—those who remain—are losing ground. We can’t allow him to continue unchecked.”

Avarice’s tone grew heavier, his clasped hands tightening slightly as he continued. “Three moons from now, the Sunship zealots will hold their first public punishments—a series of executions meant to demonstrate their authority. A hanging, I’m told, is already planned, and though I fought against it, we were overruled in a council vote. Ashen has been instrumental in driving this forward, lending them his voice and influence. If he isn’t removed, Silvano, his role in this will cement their control.”

Avarice leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “The task is delicate. Removing him outright must be... handled with care. Publicly, it must appear as if he stepped aside willingly, or the zealots will only tighten their grip further. I trust you understand what I’m asking.”
 
Silvano pondered Avarice’s words, his gaze dropping momentarily. “Half-dinosaurkin and half-emu? Another... hybrid?” He glanced down at his own form, the long, firm ears twitching slightly as if to emphasize the thought. His reflection rippled in the murky water at his feet, the donkey-like features staring back at him. “Well, I’ll be damned…” he muttered under his breath before turning back to Avarice.

“And you said they’ll be holding their first public punishments soon? Do you know who they’re planning to use for these... executions?” He hesitated on the word, his sharp tone softening into something more cautious. “I’m assuming they already have their victims in custody.”

From his corner, Mordecai exhaled a long plume of smoke, the acrid scent mixing with the damp air. The glowing tip of his cigarette burned like a tiny ember in the dim light, casting fleeting shadows across his face. “I’ve seen these punishments firsthand,” he began, his voice heavy with memory. “Long ago. In the old days.”

He paused, drawing in another drag, the smoke curling lazily upwards as though trying to escape the weight of his words. “It’s a sight I prayed would never fall upon the eyes of the newer generations. But…” He leaned forward slightly, his smoky voice rasping, “you can only keep the wolves out for so long before they realize they don’t need the front gate. They seep through the cracks instead. They find the weak points.

The metaphor lingered in the air like the cigarette smoke, a quiet testament to the corruption they all faced. Silvano’s gaze flicked back to the water, his mind churning with thoughts of hybrids, zealots, and the fragile balance that seemed poised to collapse.
 
Avarice’s expression remained composed, though the weight of the topic was evident in the measured tone of his voice. “Yes, they already have their so-called examples. A young fox-kin street performer accused of stealing scraps and an elderly crane-kin who dared to miss one of their purification rites. Neither deserves what’s coming, but in three moons, they’ll be on the central platform for the city to see. Along with any other kin selected prior to the ceremony. Ashen intends to use this as a demonstration of his doctrine—discipline through fear, masked as redemption.”

Leviathian shifted, his tail snapping against the ground as he shot Mordecai a sharp glance. “Careful with your metaphors, alchemist. Some wolves guard the gates, not sneak through cracks.”

Avarice raised a hand, silencing Leviathian’s indignation, before turning his attention back to Silvano. “The executions are inevitable,” he admitted, his voice tightening with quiet frustration. “Even with the council’s division, Ashen’s influence has made stopping them impossible. But if he remains in power, this will only be the beginning. The city cannot endure his vision for long. He must be removed—how, I leave to your discretion. Just… act swiftly. There’s little time left.”
 
Mordecai lazily tapped the ash off his cigarette, his voice cutting through Leviathian’s posturing like a knife through aged leather. “Careful where you snap that tail, pup. You might convince someone you’re dangerous. Me? All I see is a guard dog puffing out his chest like a lapdog who thinks he’s a wolf. Snap at an elder again, and I’ll teach you the difference between a bark and a bite. My patience is a chain, boy, and you’re not near strong enough to break it. Keep tugging, and I’ll tighten it around your neck.”

Silvano let out a startled laugh, an uncharacteristically casual, “And I oop—” slipping from his lips before he composed himself, shaking his head with a smirk. “...Anyway,” he said, drawing the word out to dissolve the tension. His gaze returned to Avarice, the glint of frustration simmering in his amber eyes.

“No, you’re right,” he began, his tone steadier now. “Those two don’t deserve what’s coming. Absolutely not. This can’t happen.” His ears flicked as frustration worked its way across his face. He glanced toward Mordecai, the old goat puffing silently on his cigarette, his earlier words playing over again in Silvano’s mind.

"It’s not weakness to care. It’s not even weakness to regret. But it is weakness to let those feelings paralyze you. You’re smart, Silvano. You know how to play the game. But if you lose sight of yourself, what’s the point?"

The memory lingered, and Mordecai—ever perceptive—caught the subtle shift in Silvano’s expression. He gave a knowing nod, a quiet gesture of understanding.

Silvano straightened, his frustration melting into something far more calculated. His eyes sharpened, and he turned back to Avarice, his tone soft but laced with intention.

“Avarice, dear friend,” he began, taking a slow step forward, his donkey legs lending him height and stature. “With your position on the council, I’ve no doubt you’re aware of the whispers that carry my name through the streets. Whispers of my endeavors, my... associations.” A sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, his voice silkier now, tinged with the elegance of his Victorian cadence. “The council would not, I imagine, deem my work... honorable. Some might even call it inconvenient.”

He paused, standing over Avarice now, his demeanor shifting from ally to negotiator. “You asked what I would like in return for this... delicate favor. I’ll tell you: silence. Should tales of my activities ever reach the ears of those who might not share your wisdom, you will not have seen nor heard anything. You will turn a blind eye. It is, after all, terribly difficult to operate from a prison cell—or worse, a gallows.” He glanced toward Leviathian, the sly smile fading into something colder. “And your lapdog? He will do the same. The less he yaps, the smoother this arrangement will go. Agreed?”

Silvano extended a paw, the motion deliberate and steady, his sharp gaze locked onto Avarice’s blind eyes as though daring him to refuse. “Do we have an understanding, councilman?”
 

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