The Folk Hero

Tobin stood on the central plaza, a folk hero in his own time. The city’s gratitude was a tangible thing, a wave of cheers and applause that followed him wherever he went. He had done what the Triumvirate could not: he had given them water, and with it, hope. He saw himself as a man of the people, a practical engineer who had cut through the political red tape to solve a real-world problem. The Triumvirate, in his eyes, were relics of a bygone era, too caught up in their own power to see the city’s true needs.

He had heard whispers of their disapproval, of course. He had seen the way the city guard watched him, their faces grim and unreadable. But he dismissed it as the last gasps of a dying regime. He had the people on his side, and that was all the power he needed. He was so confident in his success, so blinded by the city’s adoration, that he failed to notice the small things. The faint, metallic taste that lingered in the water. The reports of a strange, creeping lethargy that had begun to spread through the outer districts. They were just minor issues, he told himself, the expected hiccups of a new system. He was a hero, after all, and heroes did not make mistakes. The city believed in him, and so did he. It was a faith that would soon be tested in the most brutal way imaginable.