Chapter 29: Barbs and Cracks
The embers of disorder burned in two corners of the continent, fueled not by natural winds, but by the breath of fear, betrayal, and blind belief.
In Barovik, after the partial fall of Ser Modell’s guild, what remained was a city in ruins—not by broken stone, but by shattered bonds and ideals split in half. The structures still standing seemed like tombs erected for the old order. The former guild members, once united under the promise of a glorious rebirth for the Tamers, were now divided between flight, betrayal, and resistance. Some tore their own crests in despair, burning what was left of their identity. Others formed militias, hidden among alleys and ruins, using pieces of armor and empty words as shields. A few, desperate for any sense of stability, pledged allegiance to the first new leader that emerged—even if it was a masked assassin.
There were those who sold information about former allies. There were those who sold weapons confiscated from the guild itself. And there were those who sold... monsters. Companions once bound by magical ties, now caged, drugged, pushed as living merchandise. The underground markets thrived where assemblies once stood. Promises of justice were replaced by price lists and weapons hidden in bread baskets.
The streets, once vibrant with the determined steps of warriors and dreamers, were now crossed by hurried steps and sidelong glances. Silence and suspicion walked hand in hand. Armed groups of former adventurers tried to restore some order, but without leadership, each obeyed only their own version of the truth. The alleys turned into stages for improvised trials. Eren had left a void—and the void always sucks in what is most unstable.
Temporary alliances were forged under the crack of broken bottles, whispered oaths under the threat of a knife, and pacts that lasted only as long as a sweaty handshake. The buildings that still bore the guild’s crest were scrawled with messages of hate or sealed with unstable magic. Children passed these places in silence, quickening their pace, as if something still lived inside—perhaps the shadow of parents who once fought for that name.
Eren had left a trail—and that trail was becoming legend.
Rumors about a "rebel Tamer" who had deceived, confronted, and humiliated Ser Modell spread like fire in dry straw. Some called him a liberator, a symbol of breaking chains, the "Unleashed Tamer." Others, a prophet of chaos, a seed of new tyranny. But everyone talked about him. In damp alleys, hidden crypts, in letters written in dried blood, his name was invoked as prayer or curse. Some painted his figure on the walls: a silhouette cloaked in shadows and red eyes, surrounded by monsters with human expressions. Others scratched the name with knives and nails. And there were those who worshipped him, building small altars with looted items, as if their fragments contained part of his power.
Ser Modell, on the other hand, was the statue that crumbled in slow motion.
His words still echoed through the squares, but the squares were empty. His orders were still spoken, but no one listened. He was like a puppeteer with cut strings. His allies deserted—some silently, others spitting insults in his direction. The personal guard was the first to evaporate. The scribes abandoned him upon realizing his words were no longer worth ink. Finally, the counselors left, taking secrets, coffers, and maps with them. Even his own residence was invaded by looters—not enemies, but former allies hungry for revenge and furniture. All that remained were the ruins of a failed promise. Some said he fled to the mountains. Others, that he lived hidden in some crypt of the old guild. But most... simply forgot.
Meanwhile, in Archenval, the embers had turned into a firestorm.
There, the dominion of faith grew like mold under the heat of ignorance, clinging to every available surface: walls, souls, hopes. In the streets, radical believers marched with torches and counterfeit books, chanting hymns that spoke of purity with the same voice that demanded blood. Each word was a symbolic dagger, aimed at all who dared to feel. Smaller groups, hidden in cellars, undergrounds, and forgotten chapels, sheltered Tamers as if they were living relics. Archenval was no longer a city: now it was a stage. The play? The Trial of the Century. And no one could leave the theater.
The people were divided between those who burned and those who feared being burned. Fear was so tangible it seemed to seep through the street tiles.