Paragon - Book I

Open Arms

The suns rise in Solveigard, and with them a fresh wave of chaos rolls into the city. The twisting vine of gossip is aflame, traumatized over what must be the shock of the century: the upstanding Jernald Brezkin—wealthy, influential, philanthropic—has been thrown into jail in the wee hours of the night, his captain of guard dead, personal advisor missing, and hidden cache of riches and secrets uncovered by a vigilante. The minor nobles salivate over it, scurrying up and down the streets, newspaper clutched in their hands as they visit everyone in their perfectly neat row of houses, exchanging all the sordid details left out of print.

"They say the body was decapitated—"

"—a vigilante, a Smith Skiller, took down a whole battalion—"

"—masked man, murdered that guard and then carved Florringham up like a pig—"

Brezkin's colleagues are in disarray, and their tone, unlike their lesser compatriots, is much graver. Ruben has all but fled the city, claiming, they note bitterly, that the High King of Solveig must be 'informed.'

Some families amongst them are even more subdued than the others. It wasn't just orphans and poor urchins Brezkin had sold out—a lot of decent young men had died in these invasions too. And some of them came from good families: the Weitrous, Grishmens, and Toulonnes, to name a few.

The four christened vigilantes manage to roll out of their cots in time to see the procession down to city hall. It's mid-afternoon when it happens, but Allayria is still yawning into her hand while they wait in the crowded street, a croissant clutched in her other hand.

The surrounding throng buzzes in furious anticipation, and all heads turn left at set intervals, craning for a first look at the fallen noble.

Next to her, Ben seems to be made of electric wire. His bright eyes take in the crowd, the words slipping through it, and the feverish fervor. It's as if he feeds off it, and he almost hums with excitement as the dark tidings pass around.

"Do you hear what they are saying?" he murmurs to Allayria, not even noticing when she takes his half-eaten croissant from his hand and starts chewing on it.

It sounds to her like the spectators are all trying to outdo each other with a more depraved tidbit of gossip than the last in some kind of black competition for gruesomeness, but she has a feeling he's taking the situation differently, so she just grunts.

"They're unhappy," he continues, and he snatches back the croissant, ripping off a piece of it with his teeth.

"Yeah, well, Brezkin's gotten a lot of people killed," Allayria points out, eying the pastry. "Unhappy seems like a natural reaction."

He gives her the rest of it, and she watches how he licks a flake off the curve of his bottom lip.

"Yeah, but they're talking about it out here, where anyone can hear them, in front of the guards, the nobles, everyone. And—" he swipes a newspaper out of the pocket of a nearby man who is too deep in conversation with a squat, withered old woman to notice. "They're talking positively about the vigilante."

Allayria squints down at the loud "BETRAYAL AT THE BAKERY" printed across the top of the paper and snorts.

"They also think he killed at least thirty people."

"Yeah, but," he leans in, his voice tickling next to her ear, "while that may not be true, they think he's capable of it. They've learned a person in a mask can stand up to people like Brezkin and change things for the better."

Allayria looks around. She thinks the residents of Solveigard need a few more miracles of justice before they start thinking along those lines, but he's so happy about it—and he gave her the croissant—so she pulls a thoughtful expression on her face and nods.