Edmer faced a crisis. He had known from the start that mercenaries and thugs would only ever be what they were—blunt instruments of violence. But he had underestimated how quickly his fledgling army would spiral into unchecked bloodthirst. Without swift action, his so-called revolution would be reduced to little more than another gang war, and the people of Olgard would turn on him before he could seize real power.

  The Bull and Baron had become the de-facto headquarters of the Flower Soldiers, a natural choice given how many of them had once been regulars. The barkeep, Xandro, was well connected in the Lower City, his influence stretching beyond mere ale and coin. If Edmer wanted to bring order to his movement, he needed allies—ones who understood how to command respect in the chaotic streets of Olgard. And so, through Xandro, he arranged a meeting.

  The dim light of brass candlesticks flickered across the private chamber of The Bull and Baron, casting restless shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Edmer stood at the threshold, his plain black doublet marked only by the silver flower emblem that had become both blessing and curse. Behind his back, his hands clenched into fists - a gesture he hoped remained unseen by the assembled leaders.

  Within this cramped space, Olgard's underworld power structure revealed itself in stark detail. Gang lords who controlled street corners shared space with respected community figures whose influence stemmed from genuine service rather than fear. Xandro The Barkeep, occupied the final seat beside Edmer, his weathered face unreadable but his presence lending legitimacy to the gathering.

  "Gentlemen," Edmer began, noting how several attendees leaned forward at the term of respect, "your presence honors me." He let the silence stretch, allowing each man to feel the weight of being summoned by name to this council. The soft crackle of candle flames filled the pause as he gathered his thoughts.

  "Some view my Flower Soldiers as mere chaos-makers. Let them believe it." Edmer's voice hardened. "Each guardhouse we've taken proves one truth - Ravenod's supposed authority is nothing more than a paper tiger, which crumbles when challenged. His so-called guards are nothing but tax collectors with swords."

  A scarred dockworker at the table's end snorted. "And what makes you different from any other thug claiming to fight for the Lower City?"

  "Excellent question," Edmer acknowledged. "I'll tell you what separates us. Discipline. Vision. My warriors may wear patched clothes, but they answer to a chain of command. They don't loot their own neighborhoods or prey on their neighbors. That restraint is why merchants still open their shops in areas we control."

  Madame Farrow, who managed three tenement buildings, spoke up. "Control? You call burning guardhouses control?"

  "When those same guardhouses were used to beat confessions from innocent men? Yes. We're dismantling tools of oppression, madam. Each flame we light illuminates the path toward something better."

  Edmer rose, pacing purposefully behind his chair. "Here's my proposal. An equitable alliance of equals – a coalition where all voices matter. Together, we can create something unprecedented in Olgard's history. A Lower City that speaks with one voice, demanding not just crumbs from the Upper City's table, but a rightful seat at it."

  The room stirred as various factions exchanged glances. Madame Farrow remained skeptical. Edmer pressed on, sensing the moment required delicate handling. "Consider this: With your local respect and my warriors' discipline, we could secure entire districts overnight. The count's men would be outmatched at every turn – struck from all angles simultaneously. Meanwhile, your legitimate businesses would gain protection without paying extortionate taxes."

  A gang leader with a prominent facial scar leaned forward. "What's to stop you from turning on us once we’ve taken the Upper City?"

  "The very thing that stops any of you from betraying your own people. Mutual interest. If I break faith with you, I lose the support that keeps me credible. Without your endorsement and your forces, I'm just another pretender playing at revolution."

  The discussion stretched late into the night. Deals were struck, boundaries established, and mutual protections agreed upon. As the candles burned low, Edmer realized he'd achieved something remarkable - not just support, but investment. These leaders weren't merely agreeing to follow; they were buying shares in a new order.

  When the final agreements were made and the last handshakes exchanged, Edmer watched his new allies file out into the night. For the first time since beginning this crusade, Edmer allowed himself to believe victory might be possible.

  But belief alone wouldn't win this war. As the room emptied, he noted which leaders had seemed most enthusiastic - and which most reluctant. Not everyone agreed to participate, preferring to keep ostensible neutrality in imminent battle. Those hesitant eyes would need watching. Revolutions, he was learning, required as much caution as courage.

  Xandro remained behind, collecting the empty wine goblets. "You played that well," the barkeep admitted. "But remember, lad, promises flow like ale in times of trouble. It's actions that make men keep their word."

  Edmer nodded, already planning his next move. The council had given him power, but power demanded vigilance. His Flower Soldiers would need to prove themselves worthy of the trust placed in them tonight. And he would need to prove himself worthy of leading them through what promised to be bloody days ahead.

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  Dusk found the Flower Soldiers assembled in a forgotten temple courtyard deep within the slums. The broken statues of abandoned gods watched with empty stone eyes as men checked weapons purchased with both coin and bloodshed. Edmer paced before them, heart pounding beneath his ribs like a caged animal seeking escape.

  Karel approached, helm tucked under one arm, the wound across his shoulder barely healed beneath his leather armor. He would command the spearhead of the assault—the most dangerous position, but the one carrying greatest glory. Edmer would lead the second wave—engaged enough to claim courage, removed enough to ensure survival should the attack falter.

  Other commanders had positioned their forces throughout different districts, awaiting nightfall. When darkness descended, they would write a new chapter in Olgard's history with steel and fire.

  Edmer gave the signal. The unit moved like shadow made flesh, dissolving into side streets when guard patrols passed, converging again past their backs. They reached the ancient walls separating Upper from Lower City—old remainder of their diffrerences.

  Alberto, a tailor with connections in Upper City had been paid handsomely to negotiate with the gate guards. Gold loosened tongues and loyalty alike; the gates would open before the assault. The spearhead would strike directly for the palace while others scaled the walls, leaving the Guards' Corps no position to mount an effective defense.

  Karel led the first troop toward the gates, blades drawn, faces set in masks of grim resolve.

  The gates remained shut.

  Elsewhere, other troops of the coalition were already mounting scaling ladders prepared in advance, trusting in plans now unraveling. As the first men reached the battlements, alert guardsmen met them with steel and purpose. Battle erupted along the walls, alarm spreading like contagion from tower to tower.

  Edmer had no time to guess who had betrayed them—the tailor or the guards. He seized Karel's arm, pulling him close enough to smell fear-sweat beneath armor.

  "To the walls!" he commanded, voice raw with urgency. "It's too late to withdraw!"

  Flower Soldiers joined the fighting on the walls, paving their foothold with corpses. Jeoffrey moved with his troop, former scribe's hands now gripping a barbed axe in one hand and a makeshift shield in the other—a few boards nailed together that barely deserved the name. Around him, chaos reaped its deadly due. The stench of blood permeated the air. A man from the Lower City tried to leap onto a guard but was met with a spear thrust to his side. His momentum carried him over the battlements, his falling body crushing a roof below.

  Jeoffrey's unit fared better than most, clearing a path to a gate tower. The former scribe swung his axe left and right, chopping at guards' shields, uncertain in the chaos whether he struck flesh or merely wood. He tried not to think about it—tried not to think about anything beyond his next swing.

  The tower guards met them with a rain of arrows. Jeoffrey barely managed to raise his shield before several could find their mark. His comrade to the right was a heartbeat slower. An arrow struck the top of the man's head, and he fell before he could even scream. The Flower Soldiers pressed forward; hesitation meant death.

  Jeoffrey dropped his shield and swung the axe with both hands, bringing his full weight onto the tower door. Splinters flew as ancient hinges surrendered.

  The Lower City's army poured in like a tidal wave, ready to enact vengeance on the archers. The defenders drew swords, guarding staircases with desperate valor. The fight was short and desperate, with Jeoffrey nearly missing his chance to participate in the time it took to retrieve his shield.

  The tower was theirs. One of the Flower Soldiers unfurled a banner with a silver flower, which had appeared from gods-knew-where, and hung it from a window—their small victory amid the chaos of battle.

  Two soldiers moved to open the gates, while others, Jeoffrey included, claimed a moment's respite. With the tower's capture, their position shifted to the second, if not third, echelon of the battle. The young scribe peered out of the window, looking on the sea of men, blood and fire below, his stomach lurching at the sight.

  Other units had fared worse in their objectives. Most were former—or present—gang members who fought accordingly, without sense of formation or discipline. Their numbers might have overwhelmed the regular guard contingent, but reinforcements now rushed from every quarter of the Upper City. The attackers, having spent their advantage of surprise, found their force matched and then surpassed. The wall they had partly seized was being reclaimed foot by bloody foot.

  The wall of iron-banded shields presented by the Guard's Corps appeared impenetrable. And the gang members, possessing little discipline to begin with, began losing heart as they lost ground.

  The shift in their makeshift army's momentum was imperceptible at first, growing more visible with each passing moment. Their forces retreated, leaping onto the nearest roofs to avoid capture or death. Those brave enough to stand their ground merely facilitated escape for their less resolute companions, their sacrifice creating precious moments for others to slip away.

  “The bastards!” - Jeoffrey’s commander roared. They now were at risk of being surrounded, as previous defenders of the tower were - an ironical twist of cruel fate. – “Through the gates, we will have better chance in Lower City.”

  They spirited down the staircases, able to escape through the gates barely before the guards showed up, a few men covering them from behind with tower shields stolen from the guards, catching a few crossbow bolts.

  The guards were not satisfied with only recapturing walls. They sallied forward to destroy the attackers, their military training kicking in. They were the only army in the Olgard and they were here to prove it.

  Barricades began to rise on the streets of the Lower City—carts, barrels, and anything the soldiers could find. Some were raised with intention, to give the now-defending force advantage against the approaching army. Others rose out of desperation, erected by those who knew they had no hope of easy disappearance into the night.

  In the dark streets, formation and discipline became secondary to the pure thuggery the gangs of Lower City were famous for. Every corner might hide an enemy, every roof could deliver a shower of javelins, and every dismantled barricade exposed advancing men to thrusts from waiting spears. The dead bodies of Flower Soldiers and other gangs of the Lower City were soon joined by many corpses of the Guard's Corps, the cobblestones slick with blood that appeared black in the moonlight.

  When the sun cast its first rays onto the exhausted warriors, Olgard faced a stalemate. Both sides had shown their inability to break through, and an uneasy silence fell onto the streets, with Flower Soldiers taking to the barricades and guards ready at the walls. Between them laid a no-man's-land of death and destruction.

  In the uncertain light of dawn, Edmer stood atop a rooftop, surveying what his vision had wrought. His plan to win the city with a single blow utterly failed, but now all of Lower City was caught in this fight, unable to withdraw.

  The war, first to grace Olgard's streets in a century, had only just begun.