By the next day, Iron Hearth was buzzing.

The night's events had become the only topic of conversation, spreading from taverns to bakeries, from marketplaces to alley corners. Those who had been at the barricades retold the story with wild gestures, describing the green flares, the shouts of officers, the grim march of the knights. Each retelling grew taller than the last—some swore they had seen Kaelen's corpse with their own eyes, others claimed the officers had unleashed forbidden magic that blinded Iron Shield before cutting them down.

And those who had slept through it listened with wide eyes, clutching at every word.

"So it's true? Kaelen is dead?"

"Dead. Him and Tannus both. They say their bodies were carried out, chained and covered."

"Gods above… I never thought I'd live to see it."

As people spoke, they noticed something unusual: the officers were still patrolling.

Lines of navy-blue uniforms marched down the cobblestone streets in pairs and trios, batons at their sides, shields slung across their backs. The sight was not new—officers had always patrolled. But the mood around them was different.

Where once eyes would have slid away in indifference—or worse, suspicion—now they were met with nods and warm smiles. Merchants raised hands in greeting as officers passed. Children pointed at them with awe, whispering, "Those are the ones who fought Iron Shield!" Women carrying baskets paused to thank them, and even gruff laborers stopped mid-step to offer respectful nods.

For the officers themselves, it was strange. They were used to silence, to being ignored at best and spat on at worst. Now, doors opened to offer water, streets parted without complaint to let them pass. For the first time, they felt the weight of their uniforms transform—from target, to symbol.

The Law Enforcement Division was no longer seen as powerless. They had stood against Iron Shield and won.

The mood of Iron Hearth itself reflected this shift.

Markets bustled with unusual energy, merchants shouting with louder voices, customers laughing as if the weight of fear had finally lifted. Taverns filled not with hushed mutterings of crime, but with toasts to survival, tankards clashing in the name of victory. Even the alleys—once thick with shadows and whispers—felt brighter, though the same crooked stones remained.

Relief spread like sunlight after a long storm.

Not everyone was at ease, of course. Some whispered that the officers had been too brutal, that the barricades and threats to civilians had been heavy-handed. Others still wondering what sort of power the Crown had unleashed in the dark.

But even those voices were quiet beneath the roar of the majority.

For the first time in years, Iron Hearth could breathe. The city that had lived under the shadow of Iron Shield now stood tall, shoulders lighter, steps quicker.

And as the officers marched through the streets, the people of Iron Hearth greeted them not as men in uniform—

But as heroes.

…

After reading the report, Arthur set the scroll aside and leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. His eyes glimmered in the light.

Kaelen and Tannus were dead—ironclad proof of the Division's success. Their bodies secured, chained, waiting for his decision.

And it was precisely because of those bodies that he had to be careful.

To display them in the streets might feel like triumph, but it carried risk. Iron Shield had terrorized Iron Hearth for years. They had been villains, yes—but villains could just as easily be remembered as symbols. A corpse hanging in the square could breed resentment, pity, or even twisted reverence. The downtrodden might whisper: "They defied the Crown to the very end." A head on a pike might satisfy the mob in the short term—but in time, it would become a rallying point for the desperate.

Arthur's fingers drummed against the desk.

Martyrs were dangerous. The dead often spoke louder than the living.

No—Kaelen and Tannus could not be martyrs. Their names could not echo down alleys or become curses whispered in rebellion.

They must vanish.

The sea was the answer. Vast, endless, unmarked. No grave to decorate, no shrine to kneel at, no headstone for conspirators to gather around. Their bodies would sink into the depths, swallowed by saltwater and forgotten by the city that once trembled at their names.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Better to erase them," he murmured. "No relics, no remembrance. Let their memory dissolve with the tide. The people already believe in their death—that is enough. The rest…" His lips curved faintly. "…the rest belongs to silence."

The logic was simple but merciless.

No body meant no martyrdom. Without a corpse to venerate, Iron Shield's remnants would have no symbol to rally around. No burial meant no legacy; their names would fade into silence without even a gravestone to etch upon. And no grave meant no return—if whispers of survival arose, the Crown could dismiss them as fantasies.

Control the bodies, and he controlled the memory.

Arthur let the thought settle like iron in his mind, when a sharp knock sounded against the door.

"Your Majesty," came the muffled voice of his valet. "Lady Audrey wishes to speak with you."

Arthur's eyes flickered from the report on his desk to the door. He leaned back in his chair, brushing a stray ink stain from his fingers.

"Send her in," he said.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Lady Audrey stepped into the study. She was dressed with her usual elegance—simple enough for court, yet refined. A gown of pale blue silk flowed around her like water, catching the lamplight with every step. Her expression, as always, balanced warmth and keen observation, a blend of courtly poise and personal charm.

She dipped into a graceful curtsy, the gown whispering against the polished floor as she lowered her head."Your Majesty."

Arthur looked up from his desk, quill pausing mid-stroke. He gestured toward the chair opposite. "Sit. Tell me, what brings you here this time?"

Audrey moved with unhurried poise across the chamber. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness; her visits had become familiar, her steps across the study floor almost habitual. The faintest smile tugged at her lips as she lowered herself into the seat. For a brief moment, her eyes flickered to the sealed report resting on his desk—Talon's hand, unmistakable—but soon her gaze returned to Arthur's face, as if the parchment was only a passing thought.

Ever since her reassignment from Iron Hearth to Eldoria to oversee the blast furnace, Audrey had made a habit of visiting him. At first, the visits were easily explained: questions about construction, requests for clarification, technical reports. But as the weeks passed, a pattern emerged.

The questions she brought were rarely complicated. Often they were so simple that any engineer under her command could have answered them. A few times, she asked about concepts she clearly already understood.

Arthur had noticed—but he never called her out. Instead, he always responded with patience, explaining with care, sketching diagrams when words weren't enough. In his mind, it was diligence on her part. Perhaps an eagerness to learn. Perhaps a need for reassurance.

What he did not realize was that Audrey came not for the answers, but for him.

Each visit was an excuse. Each question, a reason to stand across from his desk, to listen to his voice as he explained concepts with that calm precision, to watch his eyes flicker with thought as he leaned over a page, sketching diagrams or scribbling calculations. She had long admired his vision, his brilliance with machines and governance, but admiration had slowly—quietly—blossomed into something deeper.

A quiet, insistent affection that warmed her every time she saw him.

Around him, Audrey felt a spark of joy that no forge could kindle, no furnace could produce. The blast furnaces she oversaw roared with fire, but none of them compared to the warmth she felt simply sitting across from Arthur Tesla.

Arthur, of course, remained oblivious. He misread her reasons entirely, seeing only diligence, an eagerness to learn, perhaps even overzealous thoroughness. Yet even in his misinterpretation, one thing was undeniable: he never disliked her presence.

In fact, though he would never say it aloud, he found himself looking forward to her visits.

Her laughter lightened the weight of reports and decrees. Her curiosity—even when her questions bordered on the obvious—gave him reason to pause, to speak, to explain. And in doing so, he found relief. When she entered, the study no longer felt like a prison of ink and parchment, but a place of conversation—almost companionship.

Arthur leaned back in his chair now, folding his hands neatly before him, his gaze steady and curious."So," he said, his tone even but not unkind, "what question do you have for me this time, Lady Audrey? Another issue with the furnace?"

Audrey's lips curved into a gentle smile. Her eyes lingered on him longer than propriety demanded, bright with a warmth she could not entirely hide. Resting her chin lightly against her hand, she answered, her voice carrying both respect and a playful lilt.

"No, Your Majesty. Not the furnace this time." Her smile deepened just slightly. "Today, I wished to speak of the surplus in steel production… and the growing stockpiles of pig iron."