Tyrosh, Dionysus Fountain Square
"Move! Move! Clear the way!" "Lock the doors! Close the shops!" Toot—Toot—!
The Dionysus Fountain Square, usually the shimmering heart of Tyroshi commerce, had devolved into a frantic slaughterhouse. Civilians and soldiers collided in a sea of panic. Because the crowds were so dense, the City Watch found it impossible to form a cohesive line. Outside the city walls, Commander Velerin Nahar was frantically marshaling the garrison to march into the city.
In the shadows of their safehouse, Narsas watched the storm break. The slave riot was the spark, but the slaves lacked the steel to finish the job. For the "Cornerstone Plan" to succeed, the Chainbreakers needed to seize the arsenals.
Armory No. 3 lay to the northwest of the square. Most of the City Watch were currently sprinting south to suppress the initial riots, leaving the northwest defenses thin.
"Listen well, brothers," Narsas whispered, his voice cutting through the tension. "This is the moment. Everything depends on the next hour. For the Chainbreakers!"
"For the Chainbreakers! Long live the Wolf!"
Narsas and his 300 men donned the purple cloaks and mail of the Tyroshi City Watch—uniforms they had liberated from a local military laundry the night before. They pushed out into the chaos, heading northwest. To hide their lack of standard-issue helmets, Narsas kept the unarmored men in the center of the column, hoping the general disorder would mask their irregularities.
They had covered barely 300 meters when a line of warriors blocked their path. These weren't common street guards. They wore ornate, Golden Eagle Helmets and full plate armor, looking like gilded, avian automatons.
These were the Golden Eagle Guard—the elite heralds and watchmen who resided in the high Bleeding Towers. They were the city's highest authority in times of crisis, possessing the power to override common City Watch officers. They were the Kingsguard of Tyrosh, hand-picked for their lethality and loyalty.
"Which unit are you?" the Captain of the Eagles demanded, his Tyroshi-Valyrian dialect heavy and rough. "Where are your weapons? Why are half your men without helms?"
Narsas didn't blink. He adopted a look of frantic, wide-eyed exhaustion. "My Lord! We are the East Gate reserve under Officer Karchis! We were resting in the barracks when the slaves surged in. They took our weapon racks! Officer Karchis sent us to the armory to re-equip. We need steel, or the gate falls!"
Tyrosh was split into the northern Purple Palace heights and the southern commercial districts. Rules usually forbade Watch units from leaving their assigned zones, but the "East Gate" lie provided just enough plausibility for their presence in the square. Narsas's accent was perfect, his desperation palpable.
"1st Armory is already picked clean by the reserves," the Eagle Captain mused. "Do you have your requisition papers?"
"My Lord!" Narsas's voice broke into a near-sob. "Our brothers are being butchered in the streets! There was no time for ink and parchment!"
The Eagle Captain hesitated, then sighed. Even an elite guard could see the logic of the situation. "Go. Quickly. 2nd Armory was just opened. You might find enough pikes there."
"Thank you, My Lord! Thank you!" Narsas bowed and signaled his men to move. He kept his pace steady, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. They were almost past the line when the Captain called out again.
"Wait! Take this."
Narsas turned, his hand subconsciously reaching for the magic tome hidden beneath his plate.
The Captain tossed him a heavy signet ring. "It's my token. Show it to the master of the 2nd Armory, and he won't ask for papers. Go now. This happens every few years—kill enough of the ringleaders, and the rest will crawl back to their holes. Now go!"
Narsas took the ring, his palm slick with sweat. "The East Gate thanks you, My Lord."
As the Eagle Captain watched them disappear toward the northwest, he turned and led his own men into the base of a Bleeding Tower. He left his guards at the gate and ascended the spiraling staircase alone.
Few in Tyrosh knew the true nature of the Bleeding Towers. They weren't just watchtowers; they were the temples of the Fate Weavers, a secretive religious order. The Golden Eagle Guard were their acolytes. Their relationship with the Archon was a delicate dance of mutual necessity—much like the Faceless Men and the Sealords of Braavos.
At the summit of the tower, a girl with vibrant green hair stood in a silken gown, staring at a hooded, faceless idol.
"My Lady Mia Moses," the Captain said softly. "They are in position."
Mia Moses, the daughter of Adolf Moses, the Archon of Tyrosh, turned away from the statue. Her eyes were hollow, filled with a cold, simmering fire.
"Why?" the Captain asked. "Why help a stranger destroy your father's legacy?"
"Because," Mia whispered, her gaze drifting toward the memory of a dark night. "When he sold my mother to the Magisters for their votes, he destroyed everything I ever loved. I watched him put the Golden Mask on her face and send her away like a common mare. He values his throne? Fine. I will watch it burn."
The Captain nodded. He understood. "The Fate Weavers will watch the city transition. But remember our deal: the Towers remain untouched. Whoever this 'White Wolf' is, he must respect the weavers."
"He will," Mia said, her voice turning resolute. "He knows the value of a debt. And today, Tyrosh pays its debt to me."