Arzath the Red's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Arzath needed iron and wood, the skeleton of his press. The forges in the industrial quarter worked day and night, their hammers ringing through the smoke-filled air. He couldn't buy a press whole—the transaction would be recorded, reported, traced back to him. Instead, he searched for parts scattered across the city. A machinist sold him gears from a broken loom. A blacksmith offered scraps of iron frame, asking no questions when Arzath paid in silver. Each piece brought him closer to his goal. The City of the Black Flame tried to crush resistance, but its own workshops would forge the weapon against it. Walking back toward the warehouse, Arzath noticed a poster board covered in layers of announcements. The black surface held notices about curfews and work schedules. He stopped and peered closer. Beneath the peeling edges, someone had carved symbols into the wood. Coded marks that meant nothing to soldiers but spoke clearly to those who understood. Here was proof that others resisted, that sympathizers existed in the city. Arzath traced one symbol with his gloved finger. His press would reach people like this, give them words instead of cryptic scratches. The next morning, he passed through the central square. A speaker's stand dominated the space, its gothic carvings dark against the morning sky. Officials used it to announce new laws and restrictions. But Arzath saw something else. He imagined standing there himself one day, reading from pamphlets his press had created. The structure reminded him that words spoken publicly held power. Right now, only the Empire's voice rang out. His press would change that, filling hands with pages that people could carry home and read in private. That afternoon, Arzath discovered a theater with black walls and a red sign above the entrance. The building drew crowds each night for performances approved by the authorities. He bought a ticket and went inside. The actors spoke carefully, avoiding banned topics, but the audience leaned forward anyway. People craved stories, needed them. Arzath understood then that his press wasn't just about political writings. It could print plays, poems, anything that made people think beyond their fear. The city itself showed him what he needed—places where minds gathered, where ideas could spread like fire through dry grass.