The cloaked assassin's dagger gleamed in the flickering torchlight of House Vaeron's keep, its blade arcing toward Lady Seline Kaelar's exposed neck. Elias Vaeron, perched atop a splintered table, saw the movement a heartbeat before it struck. His steel-gray eyes, flecked with amber, snapped to the threat, his mind—forged in the crucible of a modern war—calculating angles and outcomes in an instant. The Dominion Interface pulsed in his vision: Threat Detected: Assassin. Target: Seline Kaelar. Success Probability: 80%.
Elias didn't hesitate. He hurled the crossbow he'd just fired, its heavy wooden frame tumbling through the air. It struck the assassin's wrist, knocking the dagger off course. The blade grazed Seline's armor, sparking against the silver plate, and she spun, her spear flashing to pin the assassin's cloak to the wall. The figure hissed, struggling, but Seline's riders were on him, swords drawn, binding his wrists with rope.
Elias's heart pounded, his frail six-year-old body trembling from the effort. The keep was a chaos of steel and screams, House Drayce's infantry battering through the crumbling barricade at the door. His six remaining militia fought desperately, their rusted swords no match for the enemy's disciplined ranks. The interface updated: Defensive Position: Critical. Enemy Forces: 20 infantry, 8 cavalry. Morale: High. The crimson-cloaked commander, still pinned by Seline's men, watched with a bloodied smirk, as if he'd planned this betrayal.
"Who sent you?" Seline snarled, her spear pressing against the assassin's throat. The cloaked figure—his face hidden beneath a hood—remained silent, his eyes glinting with defiance.
Elias slid off the table, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. The empty musket hung at his side, its bayonet blueprint still locked in his mind, taunting him with its potential. He needed a weapon, a forge, time—none of which he had. But the assassin's presence confirmed his suspicions: this wasn't just House Drayce's land grab. Someone higher was pulling strings, and the commander knew more than he let on.
"Garrick," Elias said, his voice sharp as he turned to the retainer standing nearby, his sword still unsheathed, his loyalty tagged as Questionable. "Watch the door. If they break through, you're the first line."
Garrick's gaunt face twitched, his eyes flicking to the assassin, then back to Elias. "You trust me to hold, boy?" His tone was half-mocking, but there was a challenge in it.
"I trust you to want to live," Elias shot back, his gaze unyielding. "Prove me right."
Garrick grunted, moving to the barricade, his sword ready. Elias didn't have time to doubt him. The interface pinged: Leadership (Level 1): Inspire allies to boost morale by 15%. He climbed back onto the table, raising his voice over the clash of steel. "Vaeron! Kaelar! Hold this keep, and we'll bury these bastards in their own blood!"
The militia roared, their fear giving way to grim resolve. Seline's riders tightened their formation, their blades flashing in the torchlight. Even Mira, clutching a rusted sword too big for her small hands, stood firm, her bloodied arm trembling but her eyes fierce.
The door shuddered, Drayce's battering ram splintering the barricade. Elias's mind raced, pulling from his past life—urban warfare, ambushes, choke points. The keep's narrow entrance was a bottleneck, but his forces were too few, too poorly armed. He needed an edge, something to shift the tide.
The interface flashed: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Crude Musket Reload. A simple process: pre-packed powder charges, lead balls, ramrod. Elias's eyes darted to the armory crate Toren had dragged in—rusted swords, but also a small sack of lead shot and a vial of alchemical powder. Not ideal, but enough.
"Toren!" Elias shouted, pointing to the crate. "Get me that sack and vial—now!"
The militia captain, blood streaking his scarred face, obeyed without question, tossing the supplies to Elias. The boy's small hands worked with a precision that belied his age, packing a crude charge into the musket's barrel. The alchemical powder was close enough to his old world's gunpowder—unstable, but functional. He rammed a lead ball down the barrel, his movements mechanical, honed by years of field engineering.
The barricade cracked, Drayce's infantry pouring through. Seline's riders met them, their spears and swords holding the line, but they were faltering. The interface warned: Allied Losses: 2 militia, 1 Kaelar rider. Elias's jaw tightened. He couldn't lose them—not yet.
He raised the musket, aiming at a Drayce officer barking orders at the door. The recoil would bruise his frail shoulder, maybe break it, but he didn't care. He pulled the trigger. The musket roared, the lead ball punching through the officer's chest, spraying blood across his men. The infantry froze, their eyes wide with terror at the thunderclap that killed from afar.
The interface updated: Enemy Morale: Shaken. Losses: 1 officer, 3 infantry. Elias's lips curved into a grim smile. One shot, and he'd shifted the battlefield. But the musket was empty again, and Drayce's men were rallying, their shields raised.
"Reload!" Elias shouted, tossing the musket to Toren. "Powder, ball, ram it—fast!"
Toren fumbled, his hands unaccustomed to the weapon, but he nodded, mimicking Elias's movements. Elias turned to Seline, who was interrogating the assassin, her spear drawing blood. "Anything?" he asked.
"He's Drayce's," she said, her voice tight. "But he won't say who hired him."
Elias's eyes flicked to the commander, still pinned by two Kaelar riders. His smirk was gone, replaced by a calculating glint. "Ask him," Elias said, nodding at the commander. "He knows."
Seline hesitated, then gestured to her men. They dragged the commander forward, his crimson cloak torn, his hands bound. "Speak," she said, her spear at his chest. "Or I carve out your heart."
The commander laughed, a low, bitter sound. "You think Drayce acts alone? You're pawns in a bigger game, Kaelar. And you, Vaeron whelp—you're the spark that'll burn this empire down."
Elias's blood ran cold. The interface flashed: Diplomacy (Level 1): Analyze enemy intent for strategic leverage. The commander's words weren't just bravado. He was hinting at a larger plot—nobles, maybe the empire itself, targeting Vaeron's fall. But why? A backwater barony, barely worth the dirt it stood on—unless it held something they wanted.
Before Elias could press, a shout came from the door. "They're breaking through!" Garrick's voice was strained, his sword flashing as he parried a Drayce blade. The barricade collapsed, infantry surging into the keep. Seline's riders fell back, their line buckling.
Elias grabbed a rusted sword from the floor, its weight awkward in his small hands. The interface pinged: Tactics (Level 1): Suggest fallback to secondary choke point. The keep's rear hall—narrower, with a collapsed ceiling—could funnel the enemy. "Fall back!" he shouted. "Rear hall, now!"
The survivors moved, Seline's riders covering the retreat. Mira helped a wounded militiaman, her sword dragging behind her. Elias led the way, his mind mapping the keep's layout from the interface's data. The rear hall was a deathtrap, but it was defensible—if they could hold it.
They reached the hall, its walls lined with cracked tapestries, its ceiling half-caved in. Elias directed the militia to pile debris—broken beams, stones—into a makeshift barricade. Toren returned, the musket reloaded, his hands shaking but steady enough. "It's ready," he said.
Elias took the weapon, his shoulder already aching from the last shot. He climbed the debris, aiming through a narrow gap in the hall's entrance. Drayce's infantry charged, their shields raised, unaware of the musket's range. He fired, the recoil slamming into him, nearly knocking him off the barricade. The lead ball tore through a soldier's shield, dropping him instantly.
The interface updated: Enemy Losses: 1 infantry. Morale: Critical. The Drayce line wavered, but more pressed forward, their numbers overwhelming. Elias handed the musket back to Toren. "Keep reloading. Aim for officers."
He turned to Seline, who was guarding the commander and the assassin. "We can't hold forever," he said. "We need to end this."
Seline nodded, her eyes grim. "Drayce's leader is out there. Cut the head, the body falls."
Elias's mind flashed to his old life—targeting enemy commanders to break their chain of command. "Agreed," he said. "But we need a diversion."
The interface flashed: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Smoke Bomb. A simple device: gunpowder, cloth, oil. It could blind the enemy, cover a strike. Elias scanned the hall, spotting a cracked oil lamp and a tattered banner. "Mira," he said, "get me that lamp and banner."
She obeyed, her movements quick despite her injury. Elias worked fast, packing the last of the alchemical powder into the banner, soaking it in oil. The interface guided him: Construction Time: 2 minutes. He didn't have two minutes.
The hall shook, Drayce's men hammering the barricade. Seline's riders fought desperately, their blades bloodied. Garrick held the line, his sword a blur, but his eyes kept flicking to Elias, unreadable.
Elias lit the smoke bomb, its fuse hissing. He tossed it through the gap, the cloth erupting in a cloud of choking black smoke. Drayce's men coughed, their formation breaking. "Now!" Elias shouted.
Seline charged, her spear leading, her riders behind her. Elias followed, the rusted sword in his hands, his small body dwarfed by the chaos. They pushed through the smoke, striking at disoriented Drayce soldiers. Elias's blade found a gap in a shield, drawing blood. He didn't flinch. He'd killed before, in another life.
They reached the courtyard, where Drayce's leader—a tall man in black armor—barked orders. Seline's spear aimed for his heart, but a cavalryman intercepted, his lance knocking her back. Elias dove, slashing at the horse's legs, bringing it down. The interface flashed: Enemy Leader Exposed.
Seline recovered, her spear striking true. The Drayce leader fell, blood pooling beneath him. The interface updated: Enemy Morale: Broken. Retreat Imminent.
But the victory was short-lived. A horn blared from the west—different, sharper. The interface screamed: New Forces: 50 infantry, 20 cavalry. Affiliation: Imperial Vanguard. Intent: Unknown.
Elias's heart stopped. The empire. The commander's master? Or something worse? He turned to the pinned commander, whose smirk had returned, bloodier than ever. "Told you, whelp," he said. "You've started a fire you can't put out."
Seline grabbed Elias's arm, her eyes fierce. "We need to move. Now."
Elias nodded, but his gaze locked on the horizon, where torchlight glinted off imperial banners. The musket, reloaded by Toren, was in his hands again. One shot left. And a new enemy approaching.