Embers of Discontent

Minister Durant’s POV

Minister Aric Durant stood at the edge of his private garden terrace, swirling a glass of synthe‑wine as rain pattered on its wrought‑iron canopy. Below, the Council Hall’s marble steps glistened in electric floodlights. A drone hovered nearby, its sensors feeding live footage back to the dais. Business as usual—if “business” meant orchestrating an entire city’s silence.

He sipped and let the warmth spread carefully through him. Sipping this wine was illicit—only the highest echelon tasted it. A luxury he allowed himself when guilt gnawed too loudly.

His comm buzzed. He tapped it:

Halsey: Durant, the archives have been stolen. We intercepted the press feed—founder’s manifesto.

Durant’s stomach clenched. “They”? He keyed a reply:

Durant: Deploy Section 9. Seal all exits. I want that data.

He finished the glass, tossing the stem into a decorative planter. The shards sparkled like ice.

Behind him, an aide cleared her throat. Durant turned. She held a stack of dossiers stamped “Confidential.” He frowned—her presence in the garden was unexpected.

“Minister?” she said, voice quiet.

He gestured to the dossiers. “Status report on Section 8 sweep.”

She hesitated. “Compromised. No captive. No bodies.”

Durant pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Sector H?”

She blinked. “Recall was ordered. But I received a personal directive from… from you, sir.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What directive?”

Her lips twitched. “To stand down if there was civilian collateral.”

Durant’s breath caught. He cleared his throat. “Of course.” He had no memory of issuing that order. No one had approved such restraint.

He took another synthe‑wine—this time straight from the decanter. “Thank you,” he said, voice clipped as he dismissed her.

Alone again, he stared into the rain. The stolen archives contained damning evidence—a founder’s confession of election rigging, forced disappearances, the day the Council abandoned morality. If released, it would unravel every oath Durant had sworn.

His phone buzzed again:

Fenton (private): I have information you need. Meet in the West Atrium.

Jacques Fenton. A junior minister with ideas about “transparency”—the fool. Yet Fenton had been the one to carry certain files to Durant’s private vault. Their late–night discussions after sessions—about duty, sacrifice… sometimes something softer. Durant’s heart clenched at the memory of Fenton’s earnest eyes.

He pocketed the phone and headed inside, desire and dread warring in his chest.

The West Atrium’s glass dome dripped with condensation. Fenton stood beneath it, umbrella closed, rain dripping off his shoulders. He looked up as Durant approached, expression solemn.

“Minister,” Fenton said, voice barely above a whisper. “You wanted to see me?”

Durant closed the distance. He felt Fenton’s gaze flicker—anticipation? Fear? Hope? He swallowed. “You said you had information.”

Fenton unpacked a small data card, placing it in Durant’s palm. “Proof of your restraint orders. I have logged them—signed with your cryptographic key.”

Durant’s breath hitched. He flipped the card in his fingers. “Why?”

Fenton’s shoulders squared. “Because you’re not who they think you are. You taught me that leading with compassion isn’t weakness.” His voice trembled. “Now you can show them.”

Durant stared at Fenton, mind racing. To expose the truth would mean shattering his career—maybe his life. Yet Fenton’s faith... was harder to abandon than his own security.

He looked up at the dome’s ripple of rain-streaked light. “And Seraphine?” he asked softly, voice cracking. “What about Seraphine Vale?”

Fenton’s face darkened. “Taken in the sweep last night. No trace.”

Durant’s grip tightened. The woman who’d served free coffee, whose love had dared to bloom in a war zone... gone.

He slid the data card into his coat. “We start tonight.”

Fenton nodded, relief shining through his fear. “What’s the plan?”

Durant exhaled, resolve hardening. “We leak the founder’s manifesto ourselves. We trigger a Council investigation from within.”

Fenton’s eyes widened. “You want us to betray the Council?”

Durant laid a hand on Fenton’s arm. “To save us all.”

Above them, the dome’s glass wept, and the rain drummed a warning: once you break your oaths, there’s no going back.