The Raven Strikes
The streets of Rewen were never truly silent, but when the black carriages rolled in under moonlight, the noise disappeared.
Two sleek, unmarked vehicles passed through the north checkpoint without a word exchanged. Their wheels made no sound on the cobblestones, their windows were dark, their drivers faceless. But the guards stepped aside instinctively, because they saw the insignia stamped in wax on the lead door: a single silver raven.
The man who stepped out wore no armor, only a long black coat and gloves. His hair was slicked back, boots polished to a mirror shine. His face was sharp, his eyes sharper. He said nothing to the city commander who met him at the gates. He didn’t need to. One glance, and the commander lowered his head and turned away.
This was Captain Maldran—senior officer of the Imperial Raven Corps.
He wasn’t here for courtesy.
---
Inside the hidden Raven headquarters beneath the old library, the ten local agents stood straight as he entered. They were elite, handpicked for this border post. But in front of Maldran, even they looked uncertain.
Maldran tossed a bundle of reports on the table.
“Two days,” he said. “Two days without a single update on revolutionary activity. And when I dig into the logs, I find this.”
He pointed at a folder marked: “Unidentified Civilian Group – Five Subjects.”
“Five idiots with colored hair and broken Imperial.”
No one spoke.
Maldran paced.
“We have six thousand troops in this city. Revolutionaries filtering through the passes. Unrest in the outer provinces. And you’re playing tag with vagrants who romance blacksmiths and jump into barrels.”
Still no reply.
Maldran exhaled slowly. “We end this tonight.”
He snapped his fingers. Behind him, ten more agents stepped into the chamber. Reinforcements—his personal team. Twenty Ravens now in the city, each with a blade and a short-barreled pistol. No banners. No ceremony.
Just orders.
“Seize them. Quietly. No blood if you can help it.”
He turned to the map.
“They’re in a safehouse on Barkstone Alley. Flushed out of cover thanks to their own stupidity.”
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---
That same night, five players stood at the door of the safehouse, whispering.
“So we’re really doing this?” asked the adrenaline junkie.
“Just a little burglary,” said the student. “Test the stealth system.”
“We’re not even armed,” the old soldier muttered.
“We won’t need to be,” said the pervert. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
They opened the door.
And found themselves face-to-face with eight men in black coats and silver pins.
There was a moment of mutual surprise.
Then the world exploded.
---
One player tried to run. He was tackled and thrown to the ground.
Another raised his fists—only to be struck in the stomach and dragged back inside.
The old soldier actually landed a punch—before a second Raven clipped him behind the ear.
In less than twenty seconds, all five were down. No fatalities. Just bruises, confusion, and a whole lot of groaning.
---
While they were being bound and dragged into a side alley, the rest of the Ravens moved.
Maldran himself led the sweep on the safehouse.
They entered silently, lockpicks and crowbars working in perfect rhythm. No broken doors. No shouts. Just a methodical invasion.
Room by room, they cleared the halls.
Tanir’s men were taken first—gagged and restrained in their sleep.
Then Tanir.
Then Karl.
He barely had time to open his eyes before a gloved hand pressed against his mouth and steel cuffs snapped shut around his wrists.
By dawn, every occupant of the safehouse was in chains.
---
Karl came to in a dim room.
His head hurt. His shoulders ached. His arms were bound behind the back of a wooden chair.
Across from him stood a man in black, face blank, eyes unreadable.
Captain Maldran.
He stepped forward. Examined Karl in the flickering lamplight.
Then, quietly, almost conversationally, he said:
“I’ve seen your face before.”
Karl didn’t speak.
Maldran pulled a scroll from his coat. Unrolled it slowly. Held it up beside Karl’s face.
“Yes. You were younger then. Dirtier. But the nose is the same.”
He smiled without warmth.
“You’re the younger son. Aren’t you?”
Karl didn’t move.
“Your brother—Alven, wasn’t it?—is still in the capital. He dines with the emperor. Drinks our wine. Speaks of justice and restoration.”
Maldran’s tone darkened.
“And yet here you are. His brother. Caught hiding behind smuggler walls and playing landlord to five lunatics.”
Karl looked up, eyes narrow.
“What now?”
Maldran didn’t answer him.
Instead, he turned to the shadows behind him.
“You can come in.”
A Raven dragged Tanir into the room, half-conscious.
They forced him into the chair beside Karl and stepped back.
Tanir blinked. Then, when he saw Karl’s face—and the Captain standing over them—his eyes widened.
And widened more when Maldran spoke again.
“This boy,” he said to Tanir, “is royal blood.”
Tanir’s mouth dropped open. “He’s… what?”
Maldran’s smile returned. “You’ve been working with a prince. Didn’t even know, did you?”
Tanir stared at Karl like he’d grown a second head. “You’re joking.”
Karl didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Tanir’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re the real thing…”
Maldran cut the moment short.
“I suggest you all start talking. Quickly. Because the only thing keeping your necks intact is the fact that our emperor still calls your brother ‘guest’.”
He turned away.
“Don’t make me recommend a change of titles.”
---
Elsewhere, in a cramped cell lit by torchlight, the five players sat chained to a bench.
“I think we triggered a cutscene,” said the pervert.
“More like a factional arrest event,” the researcher muttered.
“Do you think we lost reputation?” the student asked.
The old soldier sighed. “I think we’re screwed.”
None of them had heard Maldran say “prince.”
None of them knew who Karl really was.
And right now, none of them could guess just how far the fall would go.
