The tension in The Rift was suffocating. The air, thick with the brine of the deep sea and the sweat of too many bodies packed into the district’s narrow, winding corridors, carried an undercurrent of rage. The displaced workers and former militia from Kiast were no longer just frustrated—they were furious.
Jovian moved through the sector like a ghost, his cloak pulled tight, hood casting deep shadows over his face. He had been sent to investigate the rapidly escalating protests, but he already knew the truth. Movements like this didn’t explode overnight. Someone had struck a match, and now the fire was spreading.
The streets of The Rift, always dimly lit, now flickered with the glow of makeshift torches and scavenged floodlights. Banners hung from the metal catwalks overhead, their slogans scrawled in jagged, desperate strokes. Justice. Fair wages. No more squalor.
From a high platform, Jovian watched as a speaker roused the growing crowd below. A former militia captain, by the look of him—weathered, resolute, eyes burning with conviction.
“They live in their towers above us,” the man bellowed, voice raw with passion. “They feast while we struggle to breathe their cast-off air! We built this city. We maintain it. And what do we get? Squalor! Rot! They smile down on us, toss scraps, and expect gratitude! We demand justice!”
The crowd roared, fists raised, bodies pressing closer. But beyond the fervor, Jovian caught glimpses of uncertainty—furtive glances, hesitant postures. Not all of them were ready to step off the precipice into full-blown chaos.
Jovian exhaled slowly, pressing his back against the cold metal wall. He had seen this before. The suffering was real, the anger justified—but someone had shaped it, sharpened it into a weapon. He needed to find out who.
The next night, he found his answer.
Slipping into an abandoned storehouse near the old cargo tunnels, Jovian moved like a shadow, each footstep precise, deliberate. He had trailed one of the protest organizers here—a man with enough pull to coordinate logistics, rations, movement strategies. The warehouse was nearly empty, save for scattered crates and tables cluttered with comm gear.
But Jovian’s focus was on the man already waiting inside.
Thalen Duras. A name he knew well. A snake, a manipulator. A known operative of a rival House. He lounged against a crate, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. This wasn’t just a meeting—it was a game. And Thalen was enjoying himself.
“You’re doing well,” Thalen said smoothly. “The anger is real, but it needed a push. Sunrider is watching, but they’re not moving fast enough. We need to escalate.”
The protest leader hesitated, tension rippling through his posture. “They’re already angry. The strikes are working. We can keep pressing until they have no choice but to listen.”
Thalen shook his head, his smirk widening. “Not enough. We need riots. Fires. Blood in the streets. That’s how real change happens.”
Jovian had heard enough. This wasn’t just an attempt to sow chaos—Thalen was testing Sunrider, pushing to see how far they would go before making a fatal mistake. This was bigger than Tythas City.
Back in the upper levels of New Tythas, Jovian weighed his options. The Quaestor’s orders had been clear: stop the riots before they became uncontrollable. But a direct assault would only fuel the flames. Thalen wanted Sunrider to act with force—Jovian couldn’t afford to play into his hands.
Instead, he would set the board himself.
By morning, the plan was in motion.
A rogue security faction. That was the story the city would believe. Radical enforcers, supposedly fed up with the strikes, would move in with brutal efficiency, cracking down on the protests. Sunrider would disavow them, condemn the violence, and then sweep in as the city’s saviors. Order restored. Control maintained.
Jovian stood atop a water-processing plant, watching as his operatives moved into position. They were handpicked—former security officers, defectors, men with just enough hatred and bitterness to make the act convincing. Their uniforms were carefully chosen, their insignia deliberate. Every detail mattered.
The first strike came swiftly. A clash at a supply depot—protesters meeting violent resistance from armed forces that, to any observer, acted outside of Sunrider’s control. A second attack followed, a brutal raid on a known strike stronghold, crushing a key leadership hub before it could spread further.
Jovian had expected chaos, but he hadn't expected the sheer brutality of it. Blood ran in the streets. The mercenaries he’d hired took their roles too seriously, some reveling in the carnage. This wasn't a controlled operation anymore—it was becoming a massacre.
By the time fires erupted, the narrative had already begun to shift. The workers weren’t just angry anymore—they were terrified. Terrified of the brutality, of the unknown force that had turned against them. And when Sunrider’s forces finally moved in, not to crush, but to protect, the tide turned.
Jovian walked the streets as the chaos wound down, his expression unreadable as security officers rounded up the “rogue faction,” dragging them from hiding, executing a few in staged encounters to cement the deception. Thalen was already gone—vanished the moment he saw the writing on the wall. The protest leaders? Captured. Broken.
He found himself back in the Rift that night, alone, standing where the protests had begun. Smoke still lingered in the air, the scent of burnt banners and spilled blood clinging to the wind.
Had he done the right thing?
He told himself it was necessary. Sunrider needed control. This would prevent an all-out war. But the justification rang hollow.
As he stared into the darkened streets, a new thought chilled him to the core—what if Thalen had accounted for this? What if, in orchestrating his deception, Jovian had played into the rival House’s hands all along?
Somewhere in the darkness, another riot was already being planned. Somewhere, another enemy watched, learning from his tactics, waiting for their moment.
For now, Sunrider had won.
But he had no illusions.
The next storm was already brewing.
And next time, it would be worse.