The streets were different now. Murmurs had become whispers, whispers had turned into songs, and soon the songs would grow into something neither Eren nor his network could ignore. He could feel it pressing against the walls of the palace, creeping in like fog, tainting the air with an invisible unrest. Alaric's words haunted him: Ideals are hard to kill.

Eren sat in his private study, eyes scanning over the documents littering his desk. Reports, ledgers, and letters, each one echoing a new rumor, a fresh sign of rebellion. The city was slipping from his grasp, inch by inch, and the strength of his rule alone might not be enough to pull it back.

A light knock interrupted his thoughts. "Enter."

Renna stepped in, her expression a careful blend of caution and intrigue. She dropped a sealed letter onto the desk. "This came from the west district, from a contact in the Artisan's Quarter."

Eren broke the seal and scanned the letter. It was signed with only a symbol—a single, sharp diagonal slash crossing a circle. He knew it well enough; the Son of Shadows' followers had branded it on walls and scattered tokens throughout the city.

"It's a call to gather," Renna explained, voice low. "They're organizing in numbers, moving beyond just words and whispers. Tomorrow night, they plan to meet by the river."

Eren's jaw tightened. "And if we crush them then, send a message?"

Renna shook her head. "Killing them now would make martyrs of them. You'd only add fuel to the fire. They want a symbol, Eren, something they can believe in beyond you. Simply wiping them out will confirm every fear and suspicion they have of you."

"So you propose we let them gather?" His tone dripped with contempt, though his mind raced through the implications.

"No," she replied firmly. "I propose we give them something to fear."

---

Eren's plan took shape swiftly, and that night, he summoned a select group from his trusted guard, cloaking each of them in the dark robes reminiscent of the Son of Shadows' followers. They would move through the districts as ghosts, sowing fear in the streets, ensuring no gathering could ever feel safe. His enemies would be trapped between loyalty and terror, never certain if they could trust those standing beside them.

As dawn approached, he watched them file out, his plan unfolding in every step. By tomorrow, whispers would turn to rumors, rumors to fear.

But even as he stood there, watching them vanish into the night, Eren felt an unease worming its way into his thoughts. He had chosen to meet violence with violence, but in doing so, was he pushing himself further into the role he'd once despised? The Son of Shadows had fought for freedom, and in response, Eren would chain the very people he once claimed to protect.

---

The following evening, the Artisan's Quarter lay blanketed in tense quiet. Under a slate-grey sky, scattered groups met in hidden alcoves, their murmured conversations drowned by the river's steady flow. Every face carried a shared purpose, an unspoken promise that this city was their home too, and they would no longer be silent.

When the first of Eren's men arrived, cloaked and silent, the group barely noticed. But then came another, and then another, each one sliding through the crowd like a shadow. The people felt the cold press of watchful eyes, the murmurs quieting into uneasy silence as they realized they were being observed.

Then a single, piercing scream shattered the stillness.

Eren's men descended, closing in around the gathering crowd, their silent menace enough to send people scrambling. Panic erupted, the crowd pushing against itself in a desperate attempt to escape. And in the chaos, a voice rang out.

"Cowards!" someone shouted, standing defiantly in the middle of the crowd. "Are we to be ruled by fear? By a tyrant who hides in his palace and sends shadows to silence us?"

The figure—a man barely more than a boy—held his ground, fists clenched. Eren's men hesitated, as if caught off guard by the brazen defiance. And in that moment, the crowd rallied.

---

As Eren watched from his tower, he could sense the mood shifting. His guards reported skirmishes, pockets of resistance springing up like wildfire, bolstered by the bold stand of a single defiant figure. His carefully crafted fear campaign had backfired, leaving him with only one choice: to confront them himself.

The next morning, Eren entered the Artisan's Quarter, his presence like a thunderclap across the district. Flanked by Renna and Alaric, he walked through the streets, every eye trained on him as he moved.

He reached the square where the boy had made his stand, and there, he saw it—etched in charcoal on the wall, the Son's symbol, raw and defiant. Eren turned to the gathered crowd, his face a cold mask.

"This defiance, this chaos you crave—do you understand what it will bring?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the silence. "Do you think rebellion will save you? That a symbol will protect you from the reality of war?"

The crowd's silence was broken only by a murmur, a faint response that reached Eren's ears: "Maybe it's not about protection. Maybe it's about hope."

He froze, a chill running through him at the echo of that word. Hope—an ideal he had tried to stamp out, only to find it growing stronger.

For the first time, Eren found himself at an impasse, feeling the weight of every choice he had made pressing down on him, threatening to undo him. And for the briefest of moments, doubt flickered in his gaze—a chink in the iron resolve he had cultivated for so long.

But it was enough. The people saw it, and in that single moment, the seed of defiance blossomed anew.