Arzath the Red's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Arzath the Red stood in the shadowed doorway of an abandoned warehouse, his crimson coat drawn tight against the cold. The City of the Black Flame stretched before him, its streets crawling with soldiers who burned any book they found. He carried a leather satchel filled with metal type pieces, smuggled through three checkpoints. His dream kept him moving through the danger—a secret printing press that would spread the truth the Empire tried to bury. He needed a base, somewhere the authorities would never think to look. The building before him rose like a dark monument, its black stone walls thick and forgotten. No one came here anymore. The gothic structure had been abandoned for years, its rooms empty and silent. Arzath stepped inside and felt the weight of possibility settle over him. This shadowy sanctuary would house his press. Outside, lampposts lined the streets, their black flames casting strange light across the cobblestones. Arzath studied one near the warehouse entrance. The ornate base had space inside, hidden behind decorative panels. He could leave supplies there, messages too. The authorities would never notice. They walked past these lampposts every day without a second glance. But he couldn't work alone. He needed contacts, people who believed in the cause. The Black Cask sat three streets over, a dark tavern where workers gathered after their shifts. Arzath pushed through the heavy door into warm air and low voices. Shadowy wood beams crossed the ceiling. Patrons hunched over their drinks, speaking in whispers. This was where resistance began—in quiet conversations, in trust built over time. Arzath ordered ale and listened. His press would give voice to every whisper in this room.