Chapter 88: Red Street, Red City
Artos stood alone in the middle of the Bloody Street, Toyne's body at his feet, and for a moment the whole of Braavos seemed to hold its breath.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Even the men who had been killing only moments before stood frozen where they were, staring at the sight as if their minds refused to accept what their eyes had seen.
Toyne had fallen so quickly, and in such a grotesque way that the shock of it silenced even the loudest men. The fighting did not end, not at once, but it faltered. The air itself seemed to still, as if the city had decided for one brief heartbeat that perhaps the bloodshed was finally done.
Then the Sealord's representative came forward.
He was not alone. Waymar moved with him, and others came too, all of them drawn toward Artos like men stepping toward a storm and hoping it might pass them by. The representative's face was hard with anger, but fear lived beneath it, plain enough for any man with eyes to see.
"Enough," he said. "This madness has gone far enough. Call your men back. Go before the Sealord yourself and surrender. The punishment will be lighter if you do not force this any further."
Artos did not even look at him.
He kept his gaze fixed on a point beyond the man, his cold grey eyes burning with a silence more dangerous than speech. The representative took another step closer and barked at him again, louder this time, trying to drag the moment back under control.
"Do you hear me? Stop this madness at once!"
Only then did Artos turn his head.
The representative saw his face fully then — the blood, the stillness, the expression of a man who looked less like flesh and blood than something dragged from the grave to finish its work. For the first time, the Sealord's man looked afraid in earnest.
Artos looked down at him.
The man was shorter, as most men are standing before Artos . Before the representative could speak again, Artos reached out and took him by the throat.
The street erupted at once.
Men shouted that he was the Sealord's man. Men cried out warnings. Men cursed him for daring such a thing in Braavos, for seizing an official, for threatening to make matters worse than they already were. A few of the Sealord's men moved at once, but they stopped short when they found cold steel waiting at their throats. Artos's men were already there, silent and ready, and none of them looked as if they had any taste for mercy.
"H...e w....ill k...il.....l y....o...u " he barely able to speak
Artos laughed.
It was not a sane laugh.
With blood still drying on his skin and his eyes like winter iron, he looked for all the world like a madman, or something worse. To some, he looked like a demon. To others, like death itself had decided to walk the street in human shape.
"They can try," Artos said coldly. "But whoever stands in my path, I will tear apart. I will tear apart Braavos and every living soul in it if it comes between me and my retribution."
Then he dragged the Sealord's man forward and pinned him to the ground.
The man cried out, helpless now, as Artos hauled him across the stones toward Toyne's corpse. The sound of metal and flesh followed the motion, ugly and hard. When Artos began to cut the head from Toyne's shoulders in the most brutal and crude way possible, the Sealord's representative started to tremble beneth Artos Hands.
Then Artos smeared blood across the man's face and body.
The representative gagged at once and vomited in the street, retching violently as horror overtook him. He could not stop it. He could not hide it. The sight, the blood, the smell, the brutal certainty of it all had broken whatever dignity he had brought with him.
Artos rose again and ignored him completely.
Then he shouted at his men.
"Why did you stop?" he roared. "I told you all to paint Braavos red and here you are enjoying the show." Artos spitted on the floor" You fancy yourselves my most loyal men, and yet you stand there like puppets while your commander himself paints Braavos red." Artos glared at everyone of them " SHAME ON YOU"
The shame of it struck the Brutes hard.
Not because he had insulted them.
But because they are failing to obey his orders
That was worse.
They had fought like demons, but to be told to keep going — to be told they had paused too soon, that the work was not yet finished — lit something darker in them. The shame sharpened into hunger again. Some of them looked ready to spill even their own blood if there were no more enemies left to cut down.
The fight threatened to begin again at once.
Artos raised his voice before it could.
"Wait."
The command snapped through the street and held them.
Then he pointed toward the men the enemy had brought.
"I will give one chance," he said. "To those who do not wish to fight, cast down your weapons and run. Run far away because After this, THERE WILL BE NO MERCY."
The effect was immediate.
Men dropped their blades.
Men backed away.
Men turned and ran for their lives, scattering through the streets in panic, desperate to escape the demons before them. Fear spread faster than steel now, and the enemy line, already broken, began to collapse fully.
Artos then looked toward Seraphine.
She stood shocked and pale, frightened by what she had just witnessed, by what had happened in the span of only moments. He wanted, in that instant, to kill every bastard who had done this to her. He never wanted to show her the full shape of himself, the Demonwolf, the thing the city now whispered about in terror.
But he knew better.
She was his priority now.
So instead, he turned back to his men.
"GO," he said. "TAKE THIS BLOOD AND THESE BODIES, AND HEADS — PAINT THE WHOLE OF BRAAVOS RED. PAINT THE SYTHANS AND THEIR MEN RED, THE ONES WHO DARED TO LAY HANDS ON MY LOVE. GO."
He did not stop there.
"YOU ALWAYS CLAIM TO BE MY MOST LOYAL MEN," he said. "YOU FIGHT AMONG YOURSELVES TO PROVE IT. NOW I GIVE YOU YOUR CHANCE. BRING ME GLARO SYTHAN, AND I WILL BESTOW UPON YOU THE TITLE OF SWORD OF THE DEMONWOLF. THE MOST LOYAL MAN OF THE DEMONWOLF. GO AND BRING ME THAT FOOL OF A MAN."
That was enough.
The Brutes surged again, hungry now in a way that no battle talk could have inspired. They were not merely obeying a commander. They were chasing a name, a place, a reward that belonged only to the most devoted among them.
The captain of the Valen guard turned toward Lord Valen, alarm plain on his face.
"My lord, this is madness. We cannot go along with this."
Lord Valen shook his head once, hard and final.
"This is the time to go all in," he said. "Follow the Brutes in whatever they do. I want no complaints."
The captain did not agree, but he was a loyal man. He would obey Lord Valen even if he thought the order madness. So he did. The Valen men moved with the Brutes, taking heads and bodies into different parts of Braavos, mostly toward the areas where the Sythans held sway.
Waymar joined in as well, no longer caring for politics or caution. To him, the title mattered. To be called the most loyal man of the Demonwolf was an honor, one that meant something in the North and in the army of demons.
Glaro, already seeing the battle slip beyond his reach, had fled the field in the middle of the duel, knowing the fight was lost the moment Valen arrived.
Artos picked up Toyne's head and held it out to the Sealord's representative.
"Tell the Sealord not to come between me and mine," he said. "And give him this on my behalf."
Then he threw the head at the man and let them go.
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