The Domini saga

Smoke rolls out of the ruined counting house, turning the street to ash-gray dusk. A line of town guard holds the perimeter, but their attention is on the shattered office, not the fire.

Kynes stands amid broken planks and darkened script channels, the Soul-Cutter planted in the floor. The red glow is gone, but the seal’s pulse has left a cold trace in the ruin.

At the far edge of the smoke, a crest-marked seal glints on a guard belt, the same hidden mark burned into the scrap from the quay. The chain is larger than Phandelver’s magistrate, and it is already watching.

Force the town guard to back down

Kynes flicks his hand, and the air tightens around the line of guards.

Helmets jerk sideways. Spears twist from their grips as the men choke on invisible pressure.

The captain’s sword hand locks at his side. His knees dip, then give way with a hard crack into the ash.

Bren flinches back from the ruin’s threshold, smoke curling around her as the guard line buckles in silence.

The crest-marked seal on a guard belt flashes once in the haze, then lies still against its owner’s limp body.

Across the street, the perimeter widens by a step, every guard staring at Kynes now instead of the ruin.

Kynes lets the pressure ease just enough to speak through the smoke. The captain lifts his head, sees the seals and ash, and his certainty cracks.

The guard nearest the doorway recoils, eyes dropping to the same crest-mark as if it burns. Bren sharpens her stare at the captain, while the smoldering room coughs out another thread of red ash.

The captain strips the crest-marked token from the belt and holds it out at arm’s length, as if it might bite. Around the street, the guard line tightens and waits for Kynes to take it, break it, or press harder.

Kynes steps in close and drives the Soul-Cutter through the captain’s side, just below the ribs. The blade drinks the motion, and the captain folds around it with a stunned gasp.

The captain slams a hand against the blade and spills backward into the ash, his crest-marked token clattering at Kynes’s feet. Bren flinches, then plants herself harder in the doorway.

The nearest guards recoil as one body. One spear dips. Another guard stares at the captain, then at Kynes, and cannot decide which fear matters more.

Across the street, townsfolk and warders begin to gather at the smoke, drawn by the shout and the fall. The ruined counting house coughs out a last thread of red glow from the floorboards.

The captain’s order lands badly. The line of guards tightens, then falters again as smoke licks out from the broken floorboards and the red glow under the ruin answers Kynes’s magic with a hungry pulse.

Kynes lifts the staff and draws heat through the room. Fire crawls from the splintered threshold into the dry beams, climbing fast along soot, cloth, and old timbers.

The counting house catches in layers. A clerk’s desk blooms orange, then a wall sheeting of flame snaps across the back room, and the fading magical voice dies in a choking hiss.

Outside, townsfolk stop at the edge of the street as the windows flare. Warders shove through the crowd, staring at the blaze and at Kynes standing in it.

The crest-marked token glints by Kynes’s boots, half-lit by embers. Above the captain’s shoulder, a dark shape flickers in a window, like the spectral reflection of the Old Hermit watching the fire spread.