.
.
Thump... scrape... Thump... scrape.
In that paralyzing heartbeat, the grand delusion of wealth evaporated entirely. The absolute importance of the Imperial Bonds, the status of his station, the generational legacy of the Gilded Ledger, it all dissolved into worthless ash. He wasn't a master of coin. Or a lord of trade. He was just soft, slow prey.
"Master?" Hannes whispered, a single tear cutting a clean track through the dust on his face.
Hannes dropped the heavy leather satchel. The Emperor's priceless seals spilled across the floorboards, ignored. He left the safe wide open.
"The back window," Marcellus hissed, his voice finally matching Hannes's terror. "The ivy trellis. We climb down."
"But the gold"
"Leave it! Leave it all to the worms!"
Marcellus snatched a small pouch from his desk, refined mana crystals, the lightest, most concentrated form of currency in the realm, and bolted for the window. He was a fat man, thoroughly unused to physical exertion, but the sheer, primal horror crawling up the stairs gave him desperate wings.
They scrambled over the stone sill and onto the thick, ancient vines just as the heavy office door began to buckle under a monstrous, rhythmic pounding.
Marcellus hit the alleyway hard, his polished leather shoe twisting violently on a loose cobble. A sharp tear of agony shot up his calf, but he bit completely through his lower lip to stifle the scream. He tasted hot copper.
"Run, Hannes! To the Inner Gate!" he gasped, limping heavily as he leaned on the brick wall. "If we have enough crystals, the Temple guards might let us in!"
They sprinted out of the narrow alley and merged into the nightmare of the main thoroughfare. The wealthiest district of the city had been stripped of all its gilded dignity, reduced to a primal, screaming herd.
It was a gridlock of broken opulence. Gilded carriages were smashed together in the streets, their lacquered wheels tangled and splintering. Drivers slashed at each other with silver-tipped riding crops to clear a path, while the trapped horses shrieked, their nostrils flaring as the scent of old graves drifted heavily on the wind.
Marcellus ran. He limped, sweated, and panted.
Ahead of him, a rival silk trader, a man he had shared roasted pheasant with only yesterday, was struggling to pull a heavy teak chest from a stalled cart.
"Move, you fat swine!" the rival screamed, shoving a terrified servant into the mud to protect his silver.
Marcellus didn't argue. He lowered his shoulder and slammed his bulk into the man, sending the silk trader sprawling over the cobblestones. The teak chest shattered, sending silver coins rolling into the gutters.
Before the furious trader could rise to curse him, the creeping green fog rolled over the man's legs. The glowing mist curled around him with a sickening, sentient intent. The rival's fine woollen trousers hissed and dissolved, his skin blistering into black, necrotic pustules in an instant. The man's outraged shout turned into a pain shriek.
Marcellus didn't stop. Or offer a hand. He trampled blindly over the spilt silver, his boots slipping on the coins. He was no longer a man of status; he was a terrified animal fleeing the slaughterhouse.
Ahead, the massive white marble arch of the Inner City Gate loomed like a promise of salvation, guarded by a dense wall of halberds and desperate, shouting soldiers. But it was so far away. A sea of crushing, panicking humanity stood between him and the gate.
Unable to help himself, the merchant risked a single, fleeting glance over his shoulder.
The great iron gates of the Outer City, visible down the long avenue, were now a roaring inferno of viridian fire. And pouring through the flames, silhouetted against the emerald apocalypse, was an endless, undulating ocean of bone, rusted steel, and dragging limbs. The horde had fully breached the Middle City.
A ragged wheeze suddenly erupted from the lungs of a noblewoman running beside him, the contagion of the green gas already working its insidious way through the panicked crowd. She stumbled, coughing up black fluid onto her silk bodice.
Marcellus clutched his pouch of crystals tightly against his violently heaving chest, his lungs burning, his ruined ankle screaming with every lopsided, desperate step. The magic stones in his hand felt as cold and useless as gravel. In the shadow of the rotting tide, every man was a pauper.
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