The eastern gate of House Vaeron's manor erupted in a blast of fire and stone, the shockwave rattling Elias Vaeron's small frame as he stood in the burning courtyard. Shards of wood and iron rained down, mingling with the acrid smoke of the blazing stable. His steel-gray eyes, flecked with amber, darted toward the explosion's source, his mind racing to parse the chaos. The Dominion Interface pulsed in his vision, its data cold and precise: Structural Damage: Eastern Gate Compromised. Unknown Forces Detected. Threat Assessment: High.
The crimson-cloaked commander, mere paces away, froze mid-step, his sword still raised. His scarred face twisted in confusion, then fury, as he turned toward the shattered gate. His soldiers, already shaken by Elias's gunpowder trap, faltered, their shouts drowned by the roar of collapsing timber. Elias gripped the empty musket, its barrel still warm from its single shot. His call to rally had summoned a handful of survivors—militia and servants, their faces grim but defiant—but this explosion wasn't his doing. Friend or foe, it changed everything.
"Mira!" Elias hissed, glancing at the servant girl crouched behind a toppled cart. Her knife gleamed in the firelight, her eyes wide with fear and determination. "Did you see who—?"
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "It came from outside."
Elias's jaw tightened. Outside meant unknowns—reinforcements, bandits, or worse. He had eight militia left, a smattering of servants, and a manor falling apart around him. The commander's forces still outnumbered them, and the cavalry, though battered, was regrouping beyond the flames. He needed a plan, and he needed it now.
The interface pinged: Tactics (Level 1): Suggest immediate repositioning to assess new variables. Recommendation: Secure elevated position for visibility. Elias's gaze flicked to a crumbling watchtower at the courtyard's edge, its stone stairs intact despite years of neglect. It'd give him a vantage point, a chance to see what lay beyond the gate.
"Move!" he barked, his voice carrying the clipped authority of his past life. The survivors—seven men and women, armed with pitchforks, knives, and one rusted sword—rallied to him, their trust fragile but holding. Mira followed, her small form darting through the smoke. The commander shouted orders, his voice sharp as he redirected his men toward the gate, ignoring Elias for the moment. A mistake.
Elias led his ragged group to the watchtower, his frail body screaming with every step. His lungs burned, his vision blurring from the boy's chronic weakness, but he pushed through. He'd endured worse—sleepless nights in war-torn cities, wounds that should've killed him. This was just pain. Pain he could use.
They reached the tower's base, its door hanging off its hinges. Elias shoved it open, ushering the others inside. "Up the stairs," he said. "Stay low, watch the courtyard." The militia obeyed, their faces a mix of fear and awe. To them, he was a child—a noble brat who'd somehow conjured fire and death. Elias didn't care what they thought, as long as they followed.
The tower's spiral stairs were narrow, the stone slick with moss. Elias climbed, Mira at his heels, the musket slung over his shoulder. At the top, a broken parapet overlooked the manor grounds. The courtyard blazed below, the stable's fire spreading to a nearby shed. Beyond the shattered eastern gate, shadows moved—figures on horseback, their armor glinting faintly. Not the commander's men. These were new.
The interface updated: Unknown Forces: 15 riders, lightly armored. No affiliation detected. Elias's mind churned. Allies? Scavengers? Another enemy? He needed more data, but the commander's forces were already moving, splitting to face both the newcomers and Elias's position.
A grizzled militiaman, his face scarred and weathered, crouched beside Elias. The interface tagged him: Toren, Militia Captain. Loyalty: Moderate. "My lord," Toren said, his voice rough, "what in the gods' names was that explosion? And that… thing you used?" He gestured to the musket, his eyes wary.
Elias didn't answer immediately. He scanned the newcomers through the smoke, catching glimpses of tattered banners—blue and silver, not the commander's crimson. "Not ours," he said finally. "But they're not with him either. We use that."
Toren frowned, clearly struggling to follow. "Use it how, my lord? We're barely holding."
"Chaos is a weapon," Elias said, his voice low. "They fight each other, we pick up the pieces." He turned to Mira. "You said there's a servant's tunnel to the eastern wall?"
She nodded, pointing to a shadowed corner of the courtyard. "Under the old granary. It's hidden, but it's tight."
"Good." Elias's mind raced, piecing together a plan. The commander's forces were divided, distracted by the newcomers. If he could slip through the tunnel, he might flank the enemy—or reach the newcomers and turn them into allies. Risky, but he'd built his career on calculated risks.
The interface flashed: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Improvised Flare. A simple design: gunpowder, cloth, a spark. It could signal the newcomers, draw their attention, or blind the commander's men. Elias filed it away. He'd need more powder, more time.
A shout from below snapped his focus. The commander was moving, his crimson cloak a beacon as he rallied his cavalry. The newcomers charged through the broken gate, their horses kicking up dust. Swords clashed, the ring of steel echoing over the crackle of flames. The interface updated: Engagement: Unknown forces vs. Enemy cavalry. Estimated losses: 5 per side.
Elias leaned over the parapet, his small hands gripping the stone. The newcomers fought with discipline, their movements precise despite their ragged appearance. Mercenaries, maybe, or deserters from another lord. Either way, they were a chance.
"Toren," Elias said, turning to the militia captain. "Take three men, hold this tower. If anyone comes up, you drop anything you can—stones, beams, anything. Buy me time."
Toren hesitated, his eyes searching Elias's face. "You're… not like any lord I've served," he said. "What are you planning, boy?"
Elias's smirk was cold, a shadow of his old self. "Winning." He didn't wait for a response, grabbing Mira and descending the stairs. The musket bounced against his back, useless without powder but a symbol of what he could do. What he would do.
They reached the courtyard, keeping to the shadows. The granary was a crumbling husk, its roof half-collapsed. Elias found the tunnel's entrance—a trapdoor hidden under a pile of moldy sacks. He pried it open, revealing a narrow, earthen passage. The air inside was damp, thick with the smell of rot.
"You sure about this?" Mira asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"No," Elias admitted, his honesty surprising even himself. "But it's our best shot." He crawled in, the musket scraping against the dirt. Mira followed, her knife tucked into her belt.
The tunnel was tight, forcing Elias to hunch as he moved. His lungs burned, the boy's weakness threatening to drag him down. He ignored it, focusing on the interface's map: Distance to Eastern Wall: 30 meters. Structural Integrity: Poor. The tunnel could collapse, but he'd take that risk over facing the commander head-on.
They emerged near the eastern wall, the sounds of battle louder now. The newcomers had pushed into the courtyard, their riders clashing with the commander's cavalry. Elias peered through a gap in the wall, his eyes narrowing. The blue-and-silver banners bore a crest—a hawk clutching a spear. The interface tagged it: House Kaelar, Minor Barony. Status: Neutral.
Neutral. That meant they could be swayed. Elias's mind spun, weighing options. A flare could signal them, but it'd also reveal his position. A direct approach was suicidal. He needed leverage, something to tip the scales.
He turned to the remaining gunpowder in his pouch—barely enough for one flare. The blueprint was simple: wrap the powder in cloth, ignite it, aim high. It'd burn bright, maybe enough to catch House Kaelar's attention. But it'd draw the commander's eyes too.
"Mira," he said, his voice steady. "Find me a stick, something long. And cloth—anything clean."
She nodded, scrambling to search the debris. Elias worked fast, packing the powder into a torn strip of his nightshirt. Mira returned with a broken spear shaft and a rag. He tied the powder bundle to the shaft, creating a crude flare launcher.
The interface pinged: Leadership (Level 1): Rallying cry increases ally morale by 10%. Elias glanced at Mira, her face pale but resolute. She was his only ally now, but others were out there—his militia, his people. He needed them to hold.
He lit the flare, its spark hissing to life. He aimed it skyward, the powder igniting in a brilliant arc of light. It soared over the courtyard, bathing the battlefield in a harsh white glow. The fighting paused, heads turning toward the signal. The commander's voice roared, "There! The boy!"
Elias's heart sank. He'd miscalculated. The flare had marked him, not the newcomers. Cavalry wheeled toward the wall, their lances gleaming. The interface flashed: Enemy Proximity: 15 meters. Defensive Options: Limited.
Mira grabbed his arm. "We have to go!"
"No," Elias said, his voice hard. He raised the musket, its bayonet blueprint still locked in his mind. He had no blade, no shot, but he had defiance. He stepped into the open, facing the charging riders. The interface pulsed: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Tripwire Trap.
A trap. Wire, stakes, anything to slow them. He scanned the debris—rusted chains, broken planks. It could work. But time was gone.
The lead rider bore down, his lance aimed at Elias's chest. Mira screamed, shoving him aside. The lance missed, grazing her arm. Blood welled, but she didn't falter, her knife flashing as she lunged at the rider.
Elias scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. The chains. He grabbed one, looping it across the gap in the wall. The second rider hit it, his horse stumbling, throwing him to the ground. The interface updated: Enemy Forces: 12 cavalry remaining.
But the commander was coming, his sword raised, his eyes locked on Elias. "No more tricks, Vaeron," he snarled.
Elias raised the musket, its empty barrel a bluff. The interface flashed one final time: Command Tree: Diplomacy (Level 1) Unlocked. Recommendation: Parley with House Kaelar.
Diplomacy. A desperate gambit. Elias's voice rang out, clear and commanding, aimed at the blue-and-silver riders. "House Kaelar! Join me, and we end this butcher together!"
The commander laughed, his sword gleaming. But a horn sounded from House Kaelar's ranks, sharp and decisive. Their leader, a woman in silver armor, raised her hand. Her riders turned, not toward Elias, but toward the commander.
The courtyard erupted in chaos, friend and foe indistinguishable in the firelight. Elias stood frozen, the musket trembling in his hands, as the tide of battle shifted.
And then a shadow moved behind him—a figure in the tunnel, unseen until now.