The streets of Greymoor were a furnace. Flames devoured thatched roofs, black smoke smeared the dawn sky, and the sound of steel clashing against steel echoed through every alley.
Through the chaos, the "pro-god" mob dragged the three CEOs, half-shoving, half-shielding them from the battle raging all around.
"This way! Protect the gods!" shouted a rebel, blood dripping from a gash in his face. His ragged tunic was smeared with soot, his hands gripping a stolen sword. Around him, a dozen peasants formed a ragged shield, blocking arrows and spears with their own bodies as they pushed through the burning streets.
Kael stumbled, coughing on the smoke. "This is insane! They're literally dying for us—"
"They should," Riven barked, cracking a knight's skull with a stolen mace as they passed. He grinned like a wolf, teeth red with blood. "We gave them a show. Now they're believers."
Damian said nothing. He walked in silence, calm even as firelight flickered across his torn suit. His cold eyes swept the burning city, cataloguing every weakness, every opportunity.
The rebels pulled them into a hidden cellar beneath a ruined tavern. The door slammed shut, muffling the riot outside. Inside, the room stank of sweat and fear. Straw mats littered the floor, along with barrels of food, stolen weapons, and bandaged wounded.
The ragtag band of villagers fell to their knees.
"Gods," whispered an old woman, tears streaking her ash-covered face. "You descended from the sky to free us from the pig-lord."
"Bless us," begged another, thrusting his dirt-caked hands forward. "Lead us!"
Riven chuckled, spreading his arms. "You hear that, boys? We're fuckin' gods now. Bout time someone noticed."
Kael buried his face in his hands. "Oh my god, this is a cult. We've got a goddamn cult already."
Damian finally spoke, his voice soft but razor-sharp. "Not a cult." He looked over the kneeling villagers, eyes gleaming with cold fire. "An army."
The rebels bowed lower. The three CEOs exchanged looks—one amused, one horrified, one calculating.
Outside, Greymoor tore itself apart. Inside, in the shadows of rebellion, the seeds of something far more dangerous had just been planted.
Faith and Fire
The rebels huddled around the three men in the cellar, their torches guttering in the smoky air. The youngest of them, barely old enough to hold a sword, looked at Damian with eyes shining.
"You came from the sky," the boy said. "When the fire split the heavens, I saw it with my own eyes. And when the knights tried to break you… you did not kneel. No man could endure that. Only gods."
An old woman spat into the dirt. "Halbrecht is no lord—he's a parasite. He fattens himself while we starve. Raises taxes while our children freeze. He takes our daughters for his bed, and our sons for his wars. And when we complain?" Her voice cracked. "The gallows. Always the gallows."
A scarred farmer, gripping a bloodied pitchfork, slammed its butt against the floor. "You didn't bow to him. You fought back. You showed us what we've always known—he's just a fat pig in a chair. Not a god. Not untouchable."
The cellar echoed with murmurs of agreement.
Kael rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ… these people actually think we're divine."
Riven grinned, leaning back against a barrel. "Let 'em. Fear and faith move armies. Doesn't matter if they think we're gods, devils, or space aliens—as long as they fight for us."
Damian's eyes swept over the kneeling rebels, cold and calculating. "Faith is a weapon sharper than steel. And right now… it's the only weapon you have."
The villagers nodded, emboldened. "Then lead us," one whispered. "Show us the way."
Kael groaned. "Fuck me. We're building a cult, aren't we?"
Riven laughed. "No, doc. We're building a kingdom."
The Pig's Wrath
But while faith burned in the cellar, fire also burned in Greymoor Castle.
Lord Halbrecht sat red-faced at his high table, goblet trembling in his fist. The riot had gutted his city. Half his knights lay dead, the rest were scattered. The "sky demons" had vanished, hidden by peasants. And whispers of gods descended spread like plague through every tavern and market.
His advisors begged restraint. His priests urged prayer. But Halbrecht was no fool. He knew what ruled peasants. Not prayer. Not law.
Fear.
"Round up the vermin," Halbrecht growled. "Every suspected rebel. Every fool who whispered 'god' instead of 'demon.' Drag them from their homes."
The purge began at nightfall.
Men were dragged screaming from their beds. Women were beaten in the streets until they named "god-lovers." Children wailed as soldiers tore families apart.
And in the castle courtyard, Halbrecht prepared his masterpiece.
A great iron cauldron was set over roaring flames. Water hissed inside as it climbed toward the boil. The crowd—terrified, trembling—was forced to gather and watch.
A young man, one of the captured rebels, was dragged forward in chains. His face was bruised, his lip split. He spat blood at Halbrecht's feet.
"You can't kill us all," he croaked. "The gods have descended. They will free us."
Halbrecht smiled—a wide, greasy grin. "No. They will watch."
The man was lifted, screaming, into the cauldron. The boiling water swallowed him whole. His shrieks tore through the night, high and ragged, echoing through every alley of Greymoor.
The villagers wept. The guards turned pale. The man's screams went on, and on, and on.
In the cellar across the city, the rebels froze as the sound reached them. It carried through the streets, carried through the stone, carried into their very bones.
Kael's face went white. "What the fuck is that…?"
One of the rebels covered her ears, tears streaming. "He's boiling them. Halbrecht… he boils people alive to make us afraid."
The screaming lasted for hours.
Riven's grin faltered. His fists clenched. "That fat fuck's dead. I'm gonna carve him open like a hog."
Damian didn't flinch. He only listened, cold eyes unblinking. "Good," he whispered. "Fear cuts both ways. Tonight he shows his people his cruelty. Tomorrow, we show them his weakness."
The shrieks finally ended, leaving only silence. But the echo remained.
Faith and fear were now clashing in Greymoor, and the city itself had become the battlefield.
The cellar had gone silent after the screams died. Nobody spoke for a long time. Even the torches seemed to flicker weaker, as though afraid.
Finally, Damian broke the silence. His voice was calm, deliberate, ice-cold.
"Tonight, he proved he rules by fear. But fear only works if people believe resistance is hopeless. That belief ends now. We don't wait. We strike."
The rebels stirred uneasily. A young man, barely armed with a rusty short sword, shook his head. "Strike? We're farmers. Miners. We've got pitchforks, not steel. If we march on the castle, we'll be slaughtered."
Damian's gaze pinned him like a hawk. "You're already being slaughtered. One by one. In your homes. In the streets. That boiling was not punishment—it was a message. A message that you are weak. You want that to continue?"
The man swallowed hard, but didn't answer.
Riven slammed his fist into a barrel, grinning. "Fuck yeah. About time. I say we cut the pig's head off and mount it on his own gates."
A few rebels cheered nervously. Others paled.
Kael rubbed his temples. "Okay, before Captain Bloodlust here drags us all into suicide, let's think. We don't have numbers. We don't have armor. But we do have brains. These people are locked in medieval tactics—we can outthink them."
Damian nodded. "He's right. You don't need to storm the walls head-on. You need chaos. Disruption. Turn Halbrecht's fear against him."
Riven's grin widened. "Sabotage. Ambushes. Guerilla shit. I like it."
Kael pointed to the rebels. "Half of you know the castle better than the guards. Secret paths. Supply routes. Weak points. That's where we hit."
Damian's cold smile returned. "We bleed them slowly. Then, when the time is right… we take the castle in one strike."
The rebels exchanged glances—fear, doubt, hope. For the first time, they had something they had never possessed under Halbrecht.
A plan.
But while whispers of rebellion grew in the shadows, the ripples of Halbrecht's purge spread beyond Greymoor.
In the halls of Baron Hollowmere, the petty lord who had once mocked Halbrecht's weakness, a council argued.
"He boiled them alive!" a knight spat, slamming his fist on the table. "Even for Halbrecht, this is madness. His people will never forgive him."
Baron Hollowmere sneered, swirling his wine. "Madness? No. It's brilliance. Every village within a day's ride will tremble at that sound. They'll fear him more than they hate him. Fear keeps peasants in line."
But another noble leaned in, voice low. "Or it breaks them. If whispers are true—if those strangers are still alive—then Halbrecht just made martyrs. And martyrs topple lords."
Hollowmere's smile faltered.
Meanwhile, in the manor of Lady Mirabel Cazwyn, the silver-tongued debt-ridden noblewoman, the purge sparked a different reaction.
She lounged on silk cushions, listening to her spies' reports. "Boiling peasants alive? How very… theatrical. But if he must go to such extremes, it means he is desperate. And desperate lords can be… persuaded."
Her lips curved in a sly smile. "Send word to Greymoor. Tell the 'sky gods' they may find a friend in House Cazwyn—if they prove themselves worthy."
And so, in the span of a single night, Halbrecht's purge had both terrified his people and alerted his rivals.
The city simmered with fear. The countryside whispered of omens. The lords of the region sharpened their knives.
And in the shadows beneath Greymoor, three men from another world sharpened theirs.
The rebellion had not yet begun in earnest. But its first sparks were already lit.
The Pig Consolidates
In the aftermath of fire and riot, Greymoor bled. Half the market square still smoldered. Bodies lay stacked like cordwood outside the city walls, the stench of charred flesh carried on the wind.
Lord Halbrecht wasted no time. His fat fist slammed decrees onto parchment faster than his scribes could keep up.
"Double patrols on the walls. Triple guard rotations. No torch is to be lit in the city without approval," he barked. "Every tavern, every church, every brothel—spies in all of them. I want whispers dragged into the light."
His steward trembled. "And the peasants, my lord? They—"
Halbrecht silenced him with a glare. "The peasants will obey, or they will boil."
Within hours, fresh edicts spread across Greymoor:
Curfews were enforced at sundown.
Gatherings of more than five people were declared illegal.
Food tithes doubled, justified as "war tax."
And worst of all—anyone accused of whispering 'gods have descended' would hang without trial.
Fear gripped the city like a noose. The villagers, already poor, now starved. Anyone who dared look hopeful was branded "pro-god" and vanished by morning.
Halbrecht watched it all from his high balcony, sipping wine. "They will learn," he muttered. "They will fear me more than they fear their false gods."
But the cracks in his fortress of fear widened with every decree.
The Seeds in the Dark
Beneath the city, in cellars and ruins, the three CEOs quietly worked.
The rebels who had dragged them to safety now swore oaths in whispers. Every night, more villagers slipped away from the watchful eyes of the guards to kneel before the "sky gods."
Riven leaned on a stolen spear, grinning as he addressed a group of new recruits. "You're farmers, blacksmiths, piss-poor drunks—doesn't matter. Pick up a blade, follow me, and I'll turn you into soldiers that make Halbrecht's knights piss themselves."
The crowd cheered. Even the children shouted, brandishing sticks like swords.
Kael, less comfortable, crouched with a group of rebels by the glow of an oil lamp. He drew crude diagrams in the dirt with a stick: maps of Greymoor, supply routes, weak points in the castle walls.
"Stop thinking like peasants," he snapped. "Halbrecht has armor and steel, sure—but armor is heavy, and steel is brittle in the right place. Learn to aim for joints. Learn to use fire, pits, distractions. If you can't win in strength, you win in brains."
The villagers listened in awe. For the first time, someone gave them more than rage. Someone gave them tactics.
Damian watched from the shadows, arms crossed. He didn't rally or rant—he chose his words carefully, speaking only when needed.
"To fight Halbrecht is not enough," he told the rebel leaders. "You must replace him. If you win but have no power structure, no leadership, the city will collapse into chaos. And chaos is opportunity—for the wrong people."
His cold eyes swept over them. "Follow us. Obey us. And not only will Greymoor fall… it will rise again. Stronger. Under new rule."
The rebels murmured reverently, bowing their heads. The first stones of an empire were being laid in secret.
Beyond Greymoor's walls, nearby lords were watching.
Baron Hollowmere sent riders to "offer aid"—in truth, spies to measure the rebellion's strength. He smiled when he heard of Halbrecht's new decrees. "Every peasant he starves is another sword for me."
Lady Mirabel Cazwyn, ever the schemer, wrote letters laced with honey. Some went to Halbrecht, promising "loyalty." Others went to his rivals, promising "support." She would bet on both sides until a winner emerged.
And in the dwarven trading halls on the edge of Greymoor's territory, merchants whispered that rebellion meant business. "If Greymoor falls," one dwarf grunted, "its mines go to whoever takes the city. Steel, silver, iron… that's worth more than ten thousand peasants."
Halbrecht believed he had restored order. In truth, he had only sharpened the knives aimed at his throat.
First Blood in the Dark
The cellar had become a war room. Crude maps were spread across the table, lit by guttering lamps. Greymoor's streets, gates, and castle walls were scratched out in charcoal and wine stains.
Damian stood at the head of the table, arms folded, his cold eyes scanning the rebels. Riven lounged against a barrel, flipping a stolen dagger between his fingers. Kael crouched by the map, jabbing at it with a stick.
"Our first strike will be small," Damian said flatly. "We don't attack the castle yet. We cut pieces from Halbrecht's strength until the pig bleeds out."
Kael nodded. "Targets of opportunity. Patrols, supply lines, isolated knights. Kill them in the dark, melt away before reinforcements."
One rebel swallowed nervously. "But… my lord gods, forgive me, their armor—"
Riven snorted. "Armor doesn't matter when you're choking on your own blood. Relax. I'll show you how to gut a knight so fast his buddy thinks he tripped on a rock."
The rebels shivered, equal parts terrified and inspired.
Damian tapped the map. "There. The eastern gatehouse. A squad of knights rotates guard duty there each night. No more than six at a time. Kill them, and the city will whisper: 'The gods strike back.'"
Kael added, "And we burn their bodies. Make it look divine. Fear's a weapon—let's sharpen it."
The rebels nodded, murmuring prayers.
As the meeting wound down, Riven stretched and cracked his knuckles. "So, when we pull this off and take the castle, what are we calling ourselves? Every lord's got a House name. We're a house, a clan or familia now, right? Need a banner, a title."
Kael blinked. "We're planning a rebellion and you're worried about branding?"
"Fuck yeah," Riven grinned. "Branding wins wars. Nobody follows 'the guys from the sky.' We need something badass."
"House Arclight," Kael muttered instinctively, puffing his chest. "That has a ring to it."
Riven snorted. "Sounds like a shitty energy drink. Pass."
Kael bristled. "Excuse me? It's dignified—"
Damian's voice cut through, calm as ever. "Names matter. They'll be carved in stone. Chanted in fear. Written in history."
The rebels leaned in, listening eagerly.
Riven grinned. "Alright then, funeral man. What's your pitch?"
Damian's cold eyes flicked between them. His voice was quiet, but the cellar seemed to freeze as he spoke.
"House Dominion."
The word hung in the air like a blade.
The rebels whispered it, reverently.
Riven smirked. "I like it. Sounds like something that crushes balls."
Kael groaned. "It also sounds like a Saturday morning cartoon villain. We can do better."
One rebel piped up timidly. "Perhaps… House of the Fallen Sky?"
Another whispered, "The House of Flame."
A third bowed low. "Or simply… the Gods' House."
Riven chuckled, clapping a rebel on the back. "Look at that, we're already franchising."
Damian's faint smile lingered. "The name will come in time. But first—blood."
Nightfall: First Strike
The rebels moved like shadows through Greymoor's alleys, guided by Kael's crude map and Damian's ruthless plan. Torches flickered at the eastern gatehouse where six knights laughed around a dice game, armor piled at their feet.
The first move came from above—Riven, dropping silently from a rooftop, his chain whipping around a knight's throat. The man gurgled, clawing at iron links, before collapsing with his windpipe crushed.
The rebels surged forward.
A pitchfork drove through chainmail. A knife slit a throat. Kael, pale and shaking, shoved a torch into a knight's face, blinding him long enough for two villagers to hack him apart.
Damian's axe cleaved with surgical precision—no wasted motion, no hesitation. One swing split helm and skull alike.
The ambush was over in less than a minute. Six knights lay butchered on the cobblestones, blood pooling black in the moonlight.
The rebels panted, wide-eyed. For many, it was the first time they'd killed. For all, it was the first time they'd won.
Damian wiped his blade clean on a corpse's cloak. "Leave the bodies where they fall. Let Halbrecht see. Let the city whisper."
Kael muttered, voice trembling. "This is insane. We're turning farmers into assassins."
Riven laughed, spitting blood from his lip. "Damn right. Welcome to House Whatever-the-Fuck. First blood's on the board."
The rebels cheered, whispering prayers to their "gods."
The rebellion had drawn its first true breath.
The Pig's Fury
At dawn, the eastern gatehouse stank of blood. Flies already swarmed the corpses of Halbrecht's knights, sprawled like broken dolls across the cobblestones.
Their dice still sat on the overturned table, stained with red. A torch burned low, sputtering in a pool of gore. One man's head had rolled into the gutter, eyes glassy, mouth frozen mid-scream.
Lord Halbrecht arrived in a fury, flanked by a half-dozen trembling guards. His fat face flushed crimson as he stared at the carnage. His jowls quivered.
"Six knights," he growled. "Six knights cut down like pigs at slaughter."
His captain of the guard swallowed hard. "My lord, the peasants whisper the gods struck here. They say the sky demons walk among them, leading—"
Halbrecht's backhand cracked across the captain's face, sending him sprawling.
"Gods?!" Halbrecht bellowed. "They are not gods! They are vermin! Peasants! They piss and shit like the rest of us!" He stomped his boot into one corpse, splattering blood across his greaves. "This is no miracle. This is rebellion. And rebellion…" His voice dropped to a growl. "…is a disease."
The priest at his side clutched his holy book. "But my lord, the villagers—"
Halbrecht rounded on him, spittle flying. "Then we purge the villagers! We burn their hovels, salt their fields, and string their corpses from the walls! Let them see what happens when they whisper 'gods' in my city!"
His guards shifted uneasily, but none dared speak.
Halbrecht raised his hands, fat fingers clenched into trembling fists. His voice rose, booming across the courtyard.
"Bring me every suspected rebel. Every peasant who failed to bow yesterday. Every tavern singer who dares hum a song of the sky demons. Bring them to me!"
His eyes burned with madness. "I will drown this city in its own blood if I must. Better ashes under my heel than thrones for false gods!"
The guards scattered to obey.
Behind him, the corpses of his knights lay silent. But the whisper was already spreading across the city:
The gods had struck. The pig had lost his knights.
Blood and Faith
The rebels crept back to their cellar hideout before dawn, reeking of sweat and blood but alive. For the first time, they weren't whispering in fear — they were shouting, laughing, clapping one another on the back.
"We killed knights!" one farmer roared, waving his pitchfork in the air like a trophy. "Gods be praised, we killed six of the fat pig's finest!"
Another villager fell to his knees before Damian, head bowed. "Lord of the Fallen Sky, you led us true."
"Not a lord," Damian corrected coldly. His eyes glimmered in the lamplight. "A ruler."
The rebels cheered louder.
Kael muttered under his breath, rubbing blood off his hands. "Ruler, lord, god — this is getting out of hand."
Riven slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him over. "Shut up and enjoy it, doc. These people will crawl through fire for us now. I say we keep feeding them victories until they start breathing war."
One by one, more villagers arrived through the hidden entrances. Some carried food. Others brought stolen weapons — rusty swords, broken shields, even crossbows taken from guard towers. Many came with nothing but their own desperation.
All came with faith.
"The gods are with us."
"The sky lords will free Greymoor."
"Halbrecht's reign is ending."
Every whisper fed the rebellion like dry kindling feeding flame.
For the first time, the three CEOs saw what they had truly created. Not just rebels.
A movement.
But above, Halbrecht moved swiftly. The corpses at the gatehouse were still warm when his purge began.
By noon, squads of knights were storming through alleys, dragging families from their homes.
"Who whispered the gods' names?" the guards demanded, torches burning in their hands. "Who prayed to them?"
If one villager hesitated, the torch was thrown. Entire homes went up in flames with families still inside.
In the square, gallows sprouted like weeds. Men and women dangled in the noose while priests shouted, "This is the fate of god-worshippers!"
One execution was slower — a blacksmith who had refused to denounce the "sky lords." He was tied to four horses, each lashed until the man was torn apart limb by limb. His screams echoed across Greymoor, but even louder were the sobs of his children forced to watch.
Halbrecht watched from his balcony, wine in hand. His smile was thin, vicious. "Let them worship screams instead of gods."
But the purge didn't break the city. It cracked it open.
For every hovel burned, three more peasants fled into the rebels' arms. For every body swinging from the gallows, ten more whispered that the gods had descended to bring vengeance.
By nightfall, the cellar was overflowing. Men, women, even children crammed inside, clutching stolen blades or makeshift clubs.
A young mother, soot still in her hair from her burned home, knelt before Kael, eyes blazing. "My family is gone. My lord, my god, give me a blade. Let me kill the pig."
Kael looked horrified. "I… I'm not your—"
Damian cut him off smoothly. "She will have her blade."
The woman kissed Damian's hands, tears staining the dirt.
Riven leaned against the wall, grinning like a wolf. "See? Every time that fat fuck boils a man alive, he's cooking up fresh soldiers for us. He's doing half the recruiting work."
Damian's voice was cold steel. "Then let him keep boiling. We'll sharpen the anger into a blade."
The rebels roared their approval.
Greymoor was no longer just a city under a lord. It was a city tearing itself apart.
And in the shadows, three outsiders tightened their grip on the chaos.
For Bread and Blood
The rebels gathered at the edge of the forest, crouched low in the tall grass. Torches glimmered in the distance along the dirt road — Halbrecht's supply caravan, six wagons laden with food and grain, escorted by two dozen armored guards.
Damian crouched with them, his eyes sharp as razors. "This is not about glory. This is survival. We need the food. We need the morale. And we need the city to see that Halbrecht cannot even feed his own table without losing to us."
Kael adjusted his crude map by lamplight, whispering furiously. "Okay, so — wagon formation, guards split between front and rear. They'll expect bandits to strike head-on, so we hit the middle. Cut them in half. Riven leads the first charge, peasants with pitchforks follow to lock them down. I'll handle fire support."
"Fire support?" a villager echoed nervously.
Kael grinned faintly, holding up two clay pots filled with oil. "Yeah. Medieval Molotov cocktails. Welcome to modern warfare, assholes."
The rebels chuckled nervously.
Riven cracked his neck, chain wrapped around his fist. "Good enough for me. Just point me at the juicy parts."
Damian's cold voice cut in. "Remember: no survivors. Every guard must die. And the city must hear of it."
The rebels nodded grimly.
The caravan creaked into the kill zone. The first wagon rolled over a log blocking the road — and the second never got the chance. Rebels surged from the grass, screaming, pitchforks and spears stabbing through horse and rider alike.
"FOR THE GODS!"
Oil pots smashed against the wagons, flames exploding across dry hay. Horses shrieked, rearing in terror.
Riven barreled through the chaos like a storm, his chain smashing helmets, his knife sliding between ribs. Every kill drew another howl of laughter. "That's right, run, you armored cunts!"
Kael crouched behind cover, hurling flaming torches into the wagons, turning the food carts into roaring bonfires. Then, at the last second, he shouted: "Pull the sacks!"
Rebels scrambled, dragging bags of grain and salted meat out of the flames. For once, their hunger drove them faster than their fear.
Damian moved like a shadow, axe cleaving clean, never wasting a swing. He barked orders between blows, directing the rebels with precision. "Hold the line. Cut the stragglers. Drive them into the fire!"
Within minutes, it was over. The guards were slaughtered, the wagons burned, and the rebels stood panting in the glow of the flames, sacks of food clutched in their hands.
Their victory cries echoed into the night.
Halbrecht's city starved. The rebellion feasted.
The Distant Thrones
Far to the north, in the crystalline courts of the High Elves, Lord Aired Vastina reclined in his silver chair as a courier finished his report.
"Rebellion in Greymoor. The peasants whisper of gods descended. Halbrecht struggles to maintain order. Last night, his supply caravans were destroyed. He has lost grain, knights, and the people's faith."
Vastina steepled his long fingers, eyes glowing faintly. "So the whispers are true. The sky demons live."
His spymaster bowed. "Shall we intervene, my lord?"
"No," Vastina said smoothly. "A small domain tearing itself apart is no threat to the High Houses. Let the pig and his peasants bleed each other dry. When the dust settles, we will collect what remains."
In a gilded salon far to the west, Lady Stéphanie de Courvoisier laughed behind her jeweled fan. "Oh, how delicious. Halbrecht boils his people alive, and they call strangers gods in rebellion. It's theater. Bloody, vulgar theater. And I, for one, adore it."
Her courtiers chuckled nervously.
She leaned forward, her eyes sharp despite her smile. "Do nothing. Watch. Let Halbrecht sink. If these sky-men are truly gods, they will prove it. If not, they will hang, and we will laugh."
And so, the Ten Great Houses watched from their lofty towers — unmoving, uncaring. To them, Greymoor was a sideshow, a play acted on a peasant's stage. For them the The sky demons are not threat.
But to the peasants of Greymoor, its war.
Bread, Blood, and Celebration
The cellar was overflowing with noise that night. For the first time in weeks, bellies were full. Rebels tore into stolen bread, salted pork, and boiled grain, laughing between mouthfuls.
Children gnawed at scraps, their eyes wide as they looked up at the three "sky lords" who had made the feast possible.
A scarred farmer raised his cup, spilling ale down his chin. "To the gods who bleed with us!"
The cheer shook the cellar walls.
Kael sat back against a barrel, trying to mask his exhaustion. "Jesus Christ, we're feeding them with their own master's food. Halbrecht must be shitting himself right now."
Riven grinned wolfishly, slamming his cup down. "Fuck yeah, he is. Look at 'em. A week ago, these people were peasants pissing themselves at the sight of a knight. Now? They're laughing, eating, ready for war. We made this."
Damian said nothing at first, only watching the rebels with sharp, measuring eyes. Then, quietly, he spoke: "This was necessary. But it is only the beginning."
Kael groaned. "Can't we just enjoy one night of not planning the apocalypse?"
Riven barked a laugh. "Nope. Damian's already five steps ahead, plotting how to flay Halbrecht alive."
Damian's cold gaze shifted to them both. "Not flay. Replace. He rules with fear. We will rule with strength. Tonight, they follow us out of desperation. Tomorrow, they must follow out of belief. We need a banner. A structure. A future."
The rebels nearby leaned in, listening, though they barely understood the words.
Kael muttered, "So you're really serious about this Clan or House thing."
Damian's lips curved faintly. "I don't joke."
Riven raised his cup. "Then here's to the House of…whatever the fuck we end up calling it. Next strike?"
Damian tapped the map pinned to the wall. "The granaries. Halbrecht's stockpiles. If they burn, his city starves."
The cellar went silent.
Kael exhaled slowly. "You're really trying to starve out a lord. Old-school siege tactics."
Damian nodded. "Starvation breeds desperation. Desperation breeds rebellion. When his people curse him, they'll turn to us."
The rebels erupted in cheers again, emboldened by the promise of another victory.
The rebellion was no longer just survival. It was strategy.
Meanwhile, at Greymoor Castle, the feast of the rebels became a funeral of rage.
Lord Halbrecht stormed into the great hall, his fat cheeks flushed purple, wine spilling from his trembling goblet. The charred remnants of the supply caravan had been dragged before him — bloodied banners, broken swords, sacks of grain cut open and emptied onto the floor like spilled entrails.
"Gone!" he roared, stamping his boot in the mess. "Food for the winter, stolen by peasants! Knights, butchered by farmers with sticks!"
His captains bowed their heads, silent.
Halbrecht's jowls quivered with fury. "This is insult! This is mockery! I am Lord of Greymoor! And I am made to look a fool by dirt-eating whoresons and their sky demons!?"
He hurled his goblet at the wall, wine splattering down like blood.
"Bring me names!" he shrieked. "Spies, conspirators, priests — I don't care! Hang them all! Burn the slums! Tear the flesh from their bones if you must!"
One captain dared to whisper: "My lord… the more we kill, the more join them. The people fear—"
Halbrecht's face contorted. He seized a carving knife from the feast table and buried it into the man's chest. The captain gasped, blood bubbling from his lips, before collapsing at Halbrecht's feet.
The hall went silent but for the lord's ragged breathing.
Halbrecht licked his lips, his eyes wild. "Let them fear. Let them see their god-kings cannot save them from me."
But in the shadows of the court, even his knights whispered what he would not admit:
The pig was bleeding.
And the gods were rising.
Fire in the Granaries
Midnight cloaked Greymoor in silence, broken only by the distant howl of wolves. The rebels crept like shadows through the back alleys, guided by Damian's ruthless planning and Kael's makeshift maps.
Ahead loomed the granary district: three massive stone warehouses, stuffed with the harvest that would feed Halbrecht's men through winter. Guards patrolled lazily around the perimeter, their torches bobbing like fireflies in the dark.
Damian's voice was low, controlled. "We divide into three groups. Kael, you light the eastern storehouse. Riven, you take the western. I'll lead the strike on the central one. We leave nothing. Burn it all."
Kael's hands trembled as he held his clay pot of oil. "You're aware this is, like, a capital war crime, right? Starving civilians?"
Damian's cold eyes didn't flicker. "This isn't war crime. It's war."
Riven grinned savagely, spinning his chain. "Let's torch the pig's pantry."
The first scream cut through the night as Riven's chain cracked against a guard's skull, dropping him instantly. Rebels surged forward, spears and pitchforks stabbing through armor before the patrols could react.
Kael hurled his first oil jar against the wooden door of the eastern granary, flames exploding as it splashed across dry grain sacks inside. The fire spread hungrily, climbing up beams, turning the storehouse into a roaring inferno.
Damian moved with clinical precision, cutting down two guards in silence before shoving a torch into the central granary's window slit. Within seconds, smoke billowed upward.
The guards shouted in panic, running to contain the blaze — but every bucket line collapsed under rebel ambush. Arrows rained from the shadows, rebels screaming battle cries as fire spread from storehouse to storehouse.
By dawn, the granaries were nothing but charred husks, flames licking the sky.
Halbrecht's food was gone.
The rebels melted back into the alleys before reinforcements arrived, laughter mixing with the crackle of fire.
For the second time, the "sky gods" had struck a blow no peasant should have been able to imagine.
And the city awoke hungry.
Whispers in the Streets
By morning, Greymoor buzzed with rumor. Markets were silent, bread stalls empty, but the people's tongues were alive with fire.
"I saw it with my own eyes," muttered an old woman, clutching her shawl. "The gods descended in smoke and flame. They burned Halbrecht's grain as punishment for his sins."
"Nonsense," hissed a butcher, though his hands trembled. "It was rebels. Farmers with blades. But—" he glanced around nervously "—farmers don't move like that. They fought like knights. Like something else."
A tavern filled with whispers:
"They say the gods walk among us, masked as men."
"They say one god wields fire, another chains, another wields death itself."
"They say the Familia is rising."
Children in the streets played at being "sky lords," one swinging a stick like Riven's chain, another drawing maps in the dirt like Kael.
Even in fear, there was awe.
Halbrecht's decrees grew harsher with each day, his punishments more brutal. But every act of cruelty fed the fire.
The peasants no longer whispered Halbrecht's name.
They whispered theirs.
The Pig's Counterattack
The great hall of Greymoor Castle thundered with Halbrecht's rage. His fists slammed against the feast table, splattering wine across maps and banners.
"They burn my granaries!" he bellowed. "They starve my city! And still the peasants whisper gods in their gutters! Enough! Enough!"
His knights knelt in silence, armored heads bowed. None dared meet his eye.
Halbrecht's face glistened with sweat. "Every alley, every forest path — scour them clean. Smoke them from their holes, drag their corpses to my walls! I want these vermin hunted like dogs!"
He stabbed his jeweled finger down on the map, splintering the wood. "No mercy. No quarter. Burn their hovels, bleed their children if you must. I want them to choke on ashes."
The knights rose as one, saluting. "By your command, my lord."
That night, Greymoor's streets and forests crawled with armored patrols. Torches flared in the alleys. Dogs bayed through the trees. Peasants fled their huts as iron boots smashed down doors.
One rebel, too slow, was dragged screaming into the square and nailed to a post, left to die as a warning.
But the rebellion did not collapse. Because one knight did not ride for Halbrecht.
Sir Aldric, captain of the eastern watch, had watched the rebellion grow with unease. He'd seen mothers starve while Halbrecht drowned himself in wine. He'd seen comrades executed for hesitating when ordered to butcher children. And last night, he had stood on the walls as the granaries burned — and felt the people cheer despite their hunger.
And something inside him snapped.
Instead of leading his patrol into the woods, Aldric broke away under cover of night, slipping through ruined backstreets until he found the cellar entrance whispered among peasants.
When he pushed inside, the rebels froze — blades raised, torches ready.
"Hold!" Damian's voice cut through, cold and commanding. His axe gleamed in the lamplight. "Who are you?"
Aldric removed his helm, revealing a scarred face, weary eyes. "A man tired of serving a pig. My name is Aldric. I am… was… Halbrecht's knight. And I have information you need."
Suspicion rippled through the rebels, but Damian's gaze narrowed with interest.
"What information?" he asked.
Aldric's voice was low, steady. "Halbrecht plans to purge the slums tomorrow night. He means to flood the district with fire and blade. But more than that…" He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "I know the castle's gates. The guards, the rotations, the keys. When the time comes, I can open them for you."
The cellar erupted into whispers.
Riven's grin was feral. "Well, well. A pig's knight turned traitor. You just bought yourself a front-row seat in this House."
Kael muttered, "Or a dagger in the back if he's lying."
Damian's voice silenced them all. "We'll test him. If he speaks true, then the pig's castle will be ours. If not…" His eyes cut to Aldric, cold as steel. "…he'll die screaming."
Aldric nodded without flinching. "Then test me. I came here to kill Halbrecht. If the gods have truly descended, I'll serve them."
The rebels roared their approval, half in awe, half in hunger for blood.
The House had gained not just another soldier — but a key.
Meanwhile, in the castle, Halbrecht sat alone in the dark, gnawing at a bone, sweat dripping down his fat face. His spies told him nothing. His people whispered gods. His knights bled in the alleys.
And he knew — though he dared not speak it aloud — that somewhere in his ranks, betrayal festered.
But Halbrecht swore into the empty hall, his voice breaking.
"They will not take my city. They will not take my throne. I will drown them in fire before I let them rule."
Yet outside his walls, fire already burned.
And in the shadows, one of his own knights sharpened a dagger for his throat.
The Knight of the Gods
By morning, the alleys of Greymoor buzzed with a new rumor.
"The knight has bent the knee."
"They say he swore fealty to the sky gods."
"Halbrecht's own captain now serves them."
In the marketplace, an old baker leaned close to her customer, voice a hoarse whisper. "I heard he cast down his sword before the gods and begged to serve. They say his oath was sealed in blood."
A cobbler spat in the dust. "More fairy tales. No knight would betray his lord."
But the butcher's wife shook her head. "I saw him. Sir Aldric. He walked into the slums last night and never came out. This morning, the patrols whisper he's gone. Where else would he go?"
Children already played the story, one boy pretending to kneel before a taller one holding a stick like a divine blade.
"I swear my oath to the gods of the sky!"
Laughter echoed, but beneath it throbbed belief.
By dusk, the tale had grown:
Aldric had not just defected — he had been chosen.
The gods had touched his heart, burned away his loyalty to the pig, and made him their knight.
And for the first time, the rebellion had something more than faceless farmers and fire.
It had a hero the people could point to.