The temptation hung in the cold night air like the smell of burning sulfur. Two hundred able-bodied tradesmen, armed with the heavy tools of their crafts, were offering Pella total power over the lower city. With a single word of assent, she could march at the head of a popular army, shatter the academy gates, and seize the brass control levers of the Sluice Crown before the town watch could assemble.
Korr Var stood beside her, his wooden rule held tight against his thigh, his eyes watchful and wary. He didn’t speak. He knew that any intervention from an official town checker would only inflame the crowd’s suspicion. This was Pella’s crucible. She was nineteen years old, her hands blackened with river slime, facing the classic hard choice of every leader caught in the collapse of an arrogant regime: whether to replace a corrupt autocrat with a righteous one.
‘Pella Rook!’ called out Master Galt, the elderly president of the Watermen’s Guild. He stepped forward onto the wet mounting block. ‘Your father gave his life at the Third Gate fourteen years ago. The Council betrayed his memory, and the College buried his books. Take the master’s badge tonight! We will swear an oath to your word alone. No court guard will touch your work while the guild has arms to swing an oar!’
