Dawn bled across the valley like a blade drawn slow across flesh.
From the hills, the rebel host descended — a ragged sea of banners and spears, shields hammered from ploughshares, swords scavenged from dead knights. Smoke rose from their torches, a black serpent trailing across the morning sky. At their head rode Sir Aldric, visor lowered, and behind him marched three men not of this world, their presence alone enough to steady the trembling ranks.
From above, Greymoor Castle loomed like a beast in stone. Its walls were old, patched and scarred, towers leaning with age. But still it stood proud, a fortress of gray teeth biting into the horizon. Within its shadow, the city lay restless, streets choked with smoke from the night's purge, its people huddled at windows, whispering of gods and demons, of fire and deliverance.
The horns blared again.
From the ramparts, Halbrecht's banners flapped defiantly, the boar sigil of his house snapping in the wind. Archers lined the walls, their bows creaking as they drew. Cauldrons of pitch bubbled above the gates, black and boiling. Knights thundered into formation behind the portcullis, their steel gleaming in the pale sun.
But beyond the gates, in the slums and alleys, whispers spread like wildfire: "The gods march. The gods come to break the pig's crown."
Lady Maelwyn watched it all from her high window, pale hands folded on the sill. Her lips curved into a razor smile as the rebel banners crested the final ridge.
And in the throne room, Lord Halbrecht gripped the arms of his chair, sweat dripping down his temples, his eyes fixed on the doors as if the horns themselves might break through.
The world held its breath.
Then the first arrow loosed.
The rebel banners snapped in the wind as the first arrows screamed from Greymoor's walls. One shaft buried itself in the dirt inches from Kael's boot, making him flinch.
"Jesus Christ!" he shouted, throwing his arms wide. "We're actually fucking doing this!"
Damian didn't flinch. He scanned the walls with a predator's focus, his voice carrying like iron across the ranks.
"Shields up! Advance in waves! First line forward, second line brace — MOVE!"
The peasants surged as ordered, rough shields locking together in a crude but functional phalanx. Arrows clattered against them, some punching through, but the line held.
Riven roared over the din, swinging his chain like a banner. "You heard the boss! Shields tight, heads down! Any man who runs, I'll gut myself!" His grin was manic, his eyes blazing. "Now let's make these pigfuckers bleed!"
The rebels howled their approval, courage catching fire in their bellies.
Kael stumbled forward, clutching a scrap of parchment — their crude map of Greymoor. His voice cracked, half fury, half disbelief.
"Catapults to the west! Get those siege ladders moving! And for fuck's sake, don't bunch up under the damn walls unless you like boiling oil as a bath!"
A group of farmers hauling a ladder nodded, scrambling into position.
From his horse, Sir Aldric raised his sword high, his voice booming above the chaos. "The south gate will open! Hold the lines until my signal, then drive the bastards into the mud!"
Rebel cheers shook the valley.
Damian stepped forward, calm in the storm. His eyes met the walls, then flicked to Kael and Riven. For a heartbeat, the three men — out of place, out of time — looked at each other.
Damian's voice was low, but sharp as steel. "No more testing. No more raids. Today, we either take the castle… or we die."
Kael swallowed hard, muttering under his breath. "God help us."
Riven grinned wider, bloodlust in his eyes. "Fuck God. We are the gods."
The horns blared again. The first rebel ladders slammed against Greymoor's walls. Arrows fell like rain.
And the siege began in blood and fire.
Blood at the Walls
The first ladders slammed against the stone with a jarring crack. Rebels swarmed forward, feet pounding rungs slick with mud and blood. Arrows hissed down like angry hornets, punching through flesh, splitting wood, hammering shields to splinters.
A farmer in a patched tunic was halfway up a ladder when a stone dropped from above crushed his skull like a melon. His body tumbled, dragging two others down with him. The ladder wavered but held, driven back upright by furious hands.
"Push, you bastards!" Riven howled, chain snapping across a rebel's shield to keep him moving. "Get your asses up there! The first man on those walls drinks free for life!"
A ragged cheer went up, even as the next wave fell to arrow fire.
Kael clutched the map against his chest, shouting through the chaos. "Don't stack the ladders side by side! Space them out! Christ, do I have to run this like a fucking operations meeting?!"
Damian was already moving, eyes sharp, barking orders like a general born. "West flank — cover the archers with shields! East ladders forward, rotate men in shifts, don't let the climb stall!"
The rebels moved with clumsy desperation, but moved all the same.
One ladder reached the parapet. A young dwarf vaulted over, axe flashing. He cleaved a guard's arm clean off before a spear punched through his chest, pinning him against the battlements. His dying roar shook the men behind him — and three more rebels hurled themselves up after him.
The walls of Greymoor were no longer stone. They were a meat grinder.
Within the thick gray halls, the throne room shook with the sound of horns, drums, and screams.
A knight burst through the doors, helm dented, blood streaming down his cheek. "My lord! The rebels are at the walls — ladders, siege carts, hundreds of them!"
Halbrecht lurched to his feet, wine-stained and trembling, his voice booming through the chamber.
"Then cut the ladders! Pour the pitch! Break them!" He wheeled on his captains, spit flying. "Why are they not dead already? They're peasants, rabble, whoresons and pigfuckers with sticks! Hold the walls!"
Another knight stepped forward, hesitant. "They fight like madmen, my lord. Their lines… they do not break. And Sir Aldric—he is not among us."
A hush fell.
Halbrecht's face darkened to a furious red. He gripped his sword so tight his knuckles cracked.
"Traitor," he growled. "Traitor!" His roar echoed off the stones, shaking even the priests. "Find him! Drag him to me alive, and I'll flay him skin by skin until his mother won't know him!"
But even as he raged, another horn blast rolled through the castle, closer now, deeper — the sound of an army not faltering, but pressing harder.
And the boar-lord of Greymoor felt the first real bite of fear gnaw into his belly.
The First Breach
A scream cut through the din as a ladder clattered against the battlements, tipping backward under the press of defenders. But on the far flank, one stubborn ladder held. A half-dozen rebels clambered up, one after another, ducking under arrows, deflecting stones with battered shields.
At the top, a beastfolk with foxlike ears let out a feral snarl, lunging onto the wall. His crude spear found a knight's throat, punching clean through the steel gorget. Blood sprayed hot across the stones.
The rebels behind him surged up, pouring over the parapet. A dwarf drove his hammer into the knee of a guard, shattering bone. An elf with a stolen longsword spun, blade flashing like silver lightning, carving a path in the chaos.
"Hold that ground!" Damian bellowed from below, his eyes burning. "Anchor the line! Make them bleed for every inch!"
Rebel cheers erupted as a torn banner of the Gods was hoisted above the battlements. It fluttered ragged but defiant — proof that the gods' army had set foot upon Greymoor's walls.
Kael, breathless and shaking with adrenaline, clutched the dirt map to his chest. "Jesus Christ, they're actually doing it—"
Riven roared with laughter, swinging his chain in a deadly arc, sending one rebel stumbling forward. "Get your ass up there, coward! First one to piss on the parapet gets a kiss from me!"
The foothold was small, precarious, but it was real. The walls of Greymoor were no longer inviolate.
While chaos reigned on the battlements, Sir Aldric rode through the alleys toward the south gate, helm lowered, cloak drawn tight.
Two guards saluted as he approached, confusion flickering in their eyes. "Sir Aldric—orders from the lord? We're to reinforce the walls?"
Aldric dismounted, slow, deliberate. His hand rested on his sword. His voice was calm.
"Yes. Reinforce them."
The first guard frowned, turning toward the ladders stacked nearby. "Aye, sir. We'll—"
Steel flashed. One stroke, clean and silent, cut the man's throat open. He crumpled without a sound.
The second guard gasped, stumbling back — but Aldric's dagger was already in his chest, driven with brutal precision. The knight shoved him aside, letting the body fall into the shadows.
He dragged both corpses behind the gatehouse wall, breath heavy, heart pounding.
Then, with steady hands, he reached for the chains.
The portcullis groaned, iron teeth rattling as they rose inch by inch. The south gate of Greymoor, untouched for years, began to open under his grip.
And in that moment, Sir Aldric whispered to himself, voice low, bitter as steel:
"For every child burned, for every servant whipped, for every kin you spat on, Halbrecht… this is your reckoning."
The groaning of the gate became a roar, drowning the horns and screams outside.
The way into Greymoor had been opened.
The Flood
The groan of the south gate turned into a thunderclap as the portcullis rose. The sound rolled across the battlefield like a drum of doom.
For a heartbeat, both sides froze. Then the rebels saw it.
"The gate! The gate's open!" someone screamed.
A tidal roar erupted.
Damian's eyes snapped toward the breach. "Forward line — push into the gap! Everyone else, cover them! Drive through, don't stop!"
Kael threw his arms wide, bellowing like a madman, "All units to the south! Funnel everything through! MOVE!"
Riven whooped with savage delight, swinging his chain above his head. "There's our front door, boys! Let's kick it the fuck down!"
The rebels surged.
Men and women trampled over corpses, shields raised as arrows fell. The first wave smashed into the gatehouse, pouring through the widening gap. Knights scrambled to intercept but were cut down by sheer numbers. Farmers with pitchforks and hammers rammed into armored men like wolves into cattle, dragging them down, stabbing, screaming, biting.
Inside the walls, panic blossomed. Civilians fled from the alleys as the rebel horde poured in, banners of the Familia rising high above the smoke.
The castle of Greymoor had been breached.
Deep in the throne room, Halbrecht froze at the sound. Not the horns, not the ladders — but the grinding, metallic roar of his south gate.
"No," he whispered, eyes wide, sweat pouring down his jowls.
Another horn blast, deeper now, closer. The clash of steel at his very walls.
A captain stumbled in, face pale. "My lord—the south gate—"
Halbrecht roared, voice cracking, spittle flying. "TRAITORS! TRAITORS IN MY HOUSE!" He hurled his goblet across the chamber, wine splattering red against the banners.
"The gods didn't open that gate!" he bellowed. "One of you did! One of you sold me out!" His eyes darted wildly between his knights, his priests, his own council. "I'll gut you all! I'll burn your families! I'll salt your fields until your names are ash!"
Knights shuffled uneasily, exchanging glances. Priests bowed lower, whispering prayers that sounded more like apologies.
Halbrecht drew his sword, blade quivering in his meaty fist, and pointed it at the doors as if he could hold the siege back with fury alone.
"Sound every bell!" he roared. "Lock every hall! If one stone of this castle falls, I'll see every one of you—EVERY ONE—hanged by your guts!"
But even as he raged, the sound of the battle drew nearer — boots pounding the cobblestones, rebel cries echoing through the streets, steel clashing against steel.
And beneath the boar's bluster, the truth curdled: Greymoor was crumbling, and the wolves were inside the gates.
Fire in the Streets
The south gate buckled wide, and the rebels poured through like a river breaking its dam.
Damian strode at the front, sword in hand, cloak billowing with the charge. His voice cut sharp above the chaos:
"Shields forward! Hold the streets! Secure every alley before you move!"
Rebels fanned out, their makeshift formations grinding against Halbrecht's knights. Steel clashed, screams rose, and the cobblestones slicked with blood.
Kael shoved a fallen crate aside, waving frantically at the peasants gawking from their doorways. "You there! Grab a spear, a pan, I don't care! Help us take your city back!"
Some fled in terror — but others, anger smoldering in their eyes, seized what weapons they could. A butcher hefted his cleaver, a washerwoman swung her club, children threw stones from the rooftops.
Riven vaulted atop a cart, chain flashing in the sunlight as he whipped it across a knight's helmet with a crack like thunder. The man crumpled, skull shattered beneath steel.
The beastfolk rebel beside him cheered wildly, raising a pitchfork high. "The gods fight with us!"
"Damn right we do!" Riven bellowed, laughing as blood sprayed across his face. "Now push, you bastards! Push!"
Damian moved with ruthless precision, directing fighters to choke points, setting fires in the alleys to block knight reinforcements, rallying deserters into fresh lines. His mind, once used to quarterly reports, now mapped the city as a battlefield.
Kael shoved through the chaos, pulling civilians into the swelling mob. "If you want food, if you want freedom, if you want Halbrecht's fat ass off your back—FIGHT!"
The cry spread. Farmers and craftsmen took up arms. A gang of orphan boys hurled stones, screaming oaths. Even the frightened elves and dwarves, long abused in Greymoor, seized blades and clubs to join the storm.
The rebellion wasn't just an army anymore. It was becoming a city on fire.
Above it all, the Gods's banners rose higher, carried on bloodied spears, flapping like wings against the smoke-stained sky.
Greymoor's streets became rivers of blood.
Rebels fought block by block, barricade by barricade. Knights in gleaming mail slammed into them like iron walls, only to be dragged down beneath sheer numbers, their polished armor dented and smeared with muck. Civilians poured from alleys with cleavers, knives, and farm tools, hacking at the knights with feral rage.
"Hold the line!" Damian roared, his blade flashing as he cut through a guard. "Don't let them regroup! Drive them toward the keep!"
Kael clambered onto a toppled cart, voice hoarse but unrelenting. "The castle is yours if you fight for it! No more taxes, no more purges, no more pigs in silk ruling your lives — take what's YOURS!"
The mob howled, surging harder.
Riven was everywhere at once, a storm of blood and chain. He slammed his weapon into a knight's helm, yanked it off with a crack, and spat on the corpse. "Is this the best you've got, Halbrecht?! Send me more meat!"
Smoke rose as rebels torched storehouses, cutting off knight reinforcements. Archers scrambled to rooftops, loosing arrows into fleeing guards. The clang of steel and the screams of the dying turned the streets into a hellish symphony.
By midmorning, the Gods had carved a path halfway to the castle gates. The banners of rebellion rose higher, fluttering from windows and spears, painted in blood across the cobblestones.
Greymoor was bleeding — and it was bleeding fast.
High above the carnage, Lady Maelwyn stood in her chamber, watching the city writhe like a beast torn open. Smoke curled skyward. The chants of rebels rose louder than any church bell.
Her maid trembled beside her. "My lady… they'll break the gates. What do we do?"
Maelwyn's lips curved into a thin, cruel smile.
"We do what we must. Halbrecht is finished. The gods are not."
She crossed the room, swept open a chest, and pulled forth a sealed parchment already prepared — her written pledge of loyalty to the Gods. She pressed it into her maid's hands.
"Take this to them," Maelwyn ordered. "Tell the gods that Lady Maelwyn of Greymoor bends her knee. Tell them I am theirs, now and forever."
The maid stammered, eyes wide. "But my lady—"
"Go!" Maelwyn snapped, voice sharp as a blade. "Every moment wasted is a risk to my neck. If Halbrecht falls and I have not already pledged, the gods will burn me with the rest."
As the maid scurried off, Maelwyn turned back to the window, watching fire bloom in the streets below.
"History belongs to survivors," she whispered, her smile widening. "And I will survive."
To the Gates
The streets of Greymoor were drowned in smoke and blood by the time the Familia's banners reached the shadow of the castle walls. The last pockets of Halbrecht's knights fell back step by step, shields cracked, spears splintered, their discipline unraveling into desperation.
The rebels pressed on, a tide of steel and fury.
Damian strode at the front, sword dripping, cloak torn and blackened from smoke. His eyes locked on the looming gates of Greymoor Keep.
"There it is," he growled, voice carrying over the din. "The heart of the beast. Once we crack it, the city is ours."
Kael staggered up beside him, blood streaked across his cheek, clutching the crumpled map in one hand. His voice cracked, equal parts disbelief and adrenaline.
"Jesus Christ, we actually made it this far…" He pointed to the walls. "They'll have pitch, murder holes, everything they can throw at us. We can't just slam our heads against that gate like idiots."
Riven laughed, a guttural, feral sound as he swung his chain over his head. "Then we don't slam. We tear." He jabbed his chain toward the gate. "Ram it. Burn it. Rip it off its fucking hinges. I don't care how — but we're not leaving till that door's in pieces."
The rebels roared their agreement, rallying tighter around the three strange lords.
Sir Aldric rode up, helm under his arm, face grim but steady. His voice cut sharp through the chaos:
"The gate can be opened from inside. The mechanisms are heavy, but if I can reach them, I'll lift the portcullis."
Damian nodded instantly. "Then we clear you a path."
Kael threw his arms wide at the swelling mob, his voice raw, desperate, electric. "This is it! One last push! Every man, woman, and child that takes this gate takes their freedom!"
A guttural chant rose from the rebels, growing louder with every beat:
"GODS! GODS! GODS!"
Damian's sword flashed in the smoke. "Form up! Shields front! Ram forward!"
Riven leapt onto a wagon, chain whipping sparks as he screamed at the mob, "Time to knock the pig off his fucking throne!"
The rebels surged toward the gate, a living battering ram of fury and fire.
And above, on the ramparts, the defenders scrambled to pour oil, to notch arrows, to hold back a tide that could not be stopped.
The Boar's Last Orders
The throne room shook with the roar of the mob outside, each chant of "GODS! GODS! GODS!" rattling the very stones. Smoke seeped through the high windows, curling black and heavy into the banners of House Greymoor.
Halbrecht stood at the center, face blotched red, eyes wild. He slammed his sword down against the dais with a crash that made his priests flinch.
"Man the ramparts! Pour the oil! Archers, every one of you, kill until your fingers snap! If the gate falls—if the gods touch this hall—I'll see every last knight of mine fed to the dogs before I bend!"
His captains nodded stiffly, though their eyes betrayed the truth: the tide was against them.
Halbrecht's roar followed them as they scattered. "The castle will not fall! The gods will burn before they set foot in my keep!"
But beneath the fury, his jowls quivered, sweat dripping down his neck. Even as he spat defiance, the chants outside grew louder, closer.
The gate was trembling.
The rebels surged like a living flood. The first battering ram slammed into the portcullis with a thunderous CRACK, splinters flying, defenders above screaming as they dumped pitch. Fire cascaded down, igniting shields and men alike, but still they pressed.
"Again!" Damian bellowed, voice cutting through the flames. "Drive it forward, don't stop until the gate breaks!"
Kael scrambled up onto the ram, waving his arms like a lunatic conductor. "Don't bunch up, don't panic—keep it steady, goddammit, or we're gonna roast alive!"
Riven was already at the front, swinging his chain to hook the blazing buckets, ripping them down on top of the knights above. He roared, firelight dancing in his eyes. "You call this defense?! I've seen worse security at a strip mall!"
The rebels howled, shoving the ram again. Wood shattered. Iron screamed. The gate buckled.
Inside the gatehouse, Sir Aldric cleaved through the last of the guards, his blade red to the hilt. He heaved against the massive wheel, muscles straining, veins bulging. With a guttural roar, the chains rattled, gears turned, and the portcullis screeched upward.
The south gate of Greymoor yawned open — a gaping wound in the castle's belly.
Rebels poured through, a storm of spears and fire, screaming as they crashed into the knights scrambling to form ranks inside.
Amid the chaos, the three outsiders fought shoulder to shoulder, their blades and voices cutting through smoke and madness.
Kael ducked under a sword, cursing as sparks flew. "We're fucking insane! This is insane! We're literally starting a goddamn civil war!"
Damian parried, drove his blade into a knight's gut, and snarled. "It's not insane. It's necessary. If you want power in this world, you don't beg for it. You take it."
Riven cracked his chain across a helmet, laughing as blood sprayed. "Well, if we're taking it, we might as well give it a name, right?"
Kael blinked at him, stunned. "You're seriously doing this now?!"
"Why the fuck not?" Riven barked, swinging again. "We're founding something, boys. A clan. A house. What's it called?"
Damian didn't hesitate, voice calm even in the storm. "The House of Voss Arclight Cross."
VAC.
For a heartbeat, the three men locked eyes in the inferno, blood and fire all around them.
Kael barked out a manic laugh. "VAC? Are you kidding me? That sounds like a fucking appliance company!"
Riven grinned, teeth bared like a wolf. "Nah, it sounds like the last fucking name Halbrecht will ever hear."
The rebels roared as their new lords raised their banner high — a crude sheet daubed with three jagged sigils, smoke-stained and torn, but flying proud above the flood.
The House of Voss Arclight Cross had been born in fire.
Into the Boar's Den
The gates of Greymoor Keep shattered with a boom that echoed through the halls like thunder. Splinters of oak and iron rained down as the battering ram burst through, and the rebels flooded into the inner courtyard, a screaming tide of steel and fire.
Knights formed a final shield wall at the steps of the keep, banners of House Greymoor fluttering weakly above their battered ranks. Their captain roared, "For the Lord! For the House!" before being trampled beneath the mob, his polished helm splitting under a dozen blows.
Damian pushed forward through the chaos, bloodied blade gleaming in the torchlight. His voice was sharp as steel: "Don't stop now! Into the hall — tear the heart out of this fucking beast!"
Kael scrambled behind, breath ragged, grabbing a rebel by the shoulder. "Form a line! Don't scatter or you'll get cut down in the halls!" He turned to the crowd and screamed, "The bastard's throne is ours — claim it!"
Riven was the first through the shattered doors, chain whirling as he kicked a knight square in the chest, sending him crashing back across the marble. He spat on the fallen guard, grinning madly. "Home sweet fucking home."
The double doors to the throne room shuddered under the pounding of axes and rams. Inside, Halbrecht stood before his dais, armor half-fastened, sword slick with sweat in his grip. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, his jowls quivering with rage and fear.
Around him, the remnants of his court huddled — priests muttering prayers, nobles pale and silent, a handful of knights clutching dented shields.
The pounding grew louder. Cracks split the wood. Dust fell from the ceiling as the mob outside roared "GODS! GODS! GODS!"
Halbrecht bared his teeth, spittle flying as he screamed at his men. "Stand, damn you! Stand and fight! This is MY castle, MY hall, MY blood! No gods, no rebels, no traitors will take it from me!"
The doors exploded inward.
Rebels poured through, a tide of smoke, steel, and fury. The knights surged forward to meet them, steel clashing against steel, screams echoing against the high stone walls.
Damian entered like a shadow, calm amidst the storm, cutting down a guard with surgical precision.
Kael followed, stumbling past corpses, voice cracking as he shouted over the chaos: "Push them back! Don't let the fat bastard breathe!"
Riven stormed up the steps two at a time, chain whipping sparks as he cracked it across a knight's helm, sending the man crashing against a pillar. He spat blood and grinned. "Where's the fucking lord of pigs?"
At the far end, atop his dais, Halbrecht roared like a wounded boar, raising his blade high.
"COME THEN, DEMONS! COME TAKE WHAT YOU THINK IS YOURS!"
The throne room descended into fire and slaughter.
The throne room was a furnace of steel and screams.
Rebels pressed against the last cluster of Halbrecht's knights, blades ringing against battered shields. Each clash splattered blood across marble floors once polished for banquets. Pillars cracked under the weight of men thrown against them. Smoke from torches and burning banners choked the air.
A knight roared, driving his sword into a farmer's chest — but three more rebels fell on him, dragging him down, hacking until his cries went still. Another knight tried to rally, but an axe split his helm like kindling.
The once-proud shield wall of Greymoor crumbled piece by piece, swallowed by the tide.
From atop the dais, Halbrecht howled at his men, voice breaking. "Hold! HOLD, DAMN YOU! You swore your lives to me! Fight to the last breath!"
But even as he raged, his knights faltered. Their arms shook, their blades heavy, their eyes darting toward the open doors where freedom — or mercy — might still lie.
Damian stepped forward through the smoke, his blade dripping. His voice cut through the chaos, cold and sharp.
"Sir Aldric."
Aldric turned, helm under his arm, face streaked with blood and ash. His eyes locked with Damian's, and for a moment, the weight of command hung between them.
Damian's voice was iron. "Give the order. Tell them — surrender, or fall with their lord."
The room stilled, the clash of steel pausing for a heartbeat as knights and rebels alike turned toward Aldric.
Kael, panting, wiped blood from his cheek. "Make them choose, Aldric. End this without more bodies if you can."
Riven cracked his chain against a pillar, sparks flying, his grin feral. "And if they don't bend? Then we grind them into the stone."
Aldric drew himself tall, his voice booming with the authority of a knight once loyal to the house he now betrayed.
"Knights of Greymoor!" he roared. His words echoed like thunder. "You've bled, you've fought — but your lord is finished. His cause is lost. Yield now, and live. Stand with him, and die by my blade."
The surviving knights froze, blades trembling.
Halbrecht's face twisted, red with rage. "TRAITORS! You dare—"
But his voice was drowned out by the silence of hesitation, as every knight's eyes flicked between their broken lord and the man who had opened the gates.
The weight of choice hung in the air, heavy as the smoke.
For a long, heavy moment, silence ruled the throne room — broken only by the crackle of burning banners and the rasp of steel on stone.
Then one knight let his sword clatter to the marble, falling to his knees. "Enough," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Greymoor is lost."
Another followed, dropping his shield with a clang, then another. Soon, half the battered line was on their knees, weapons cast aside, eyes lowered in shame. Rebels surged forward, not to kill, but to bind them, dragging them away with curses and jeers.
But the other half stood firm, their faces pale but defiant. One knight, helm dented and bleeding from the brow, snarled through broken teeth. "We swore our oaths. A knight without loyalty is nothing. We die with our lord."
Halbrecht's eyes gleamed at those words, pride swelling through the madness. He slammed his sword against the dais and roared, spit flying from his jowls: "Yes! That is loyalty! That is honor! Stand with me, and the gods themselves will choke on your steel!"
The remaining loyalists closed ranks around him, battered shields raised, eyes burning with fanatical fire. They were broken, outnumbered, already defeated — but they stood ready to die at his side.
Aldric lowered his head, voice grim. "So be it."
Damian raised his blade, calm, precise, already planning the angles of the slaughter. "Then we cut them down."
Kael swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his face. "Christ, this is going to be a fucking bloodbath."
Riven's grin widened, teeth flashing like a wolf's. "Good. I like my gods covered in blood."
The rebels tightened around the dais, steel gleaming, breath hot and heavy in the smoky air.
Halbrecht lifted his sword high, his loyal knights bracing for the final clash. His roar shook the hall like thunder:
"COME THEN, DEMONS! GREYMOOR WILL NEVER KNEEL!"
Their fate has been sealed.
The Boar's Last Stand
The throne room fell silent, save for the crackle of fire and the drip of blood from shattered blades.
On one side: the rebels, packed tight, blades raised, their three "gods" standing at the front. Smoke swirled around their faces, their eyes burning with victory.
On the dais: Halbrecht and his last knights, their armor dented, their shields cracked, their breaths ragged but unyielding. They looked like men carved from stone, ready to crumble only once their blood ran dry.
The two lines stared at one another, only feet apart. A heartbeat stretched into eternity.
Damian's voice broke the silence, cold and precise. "This ends here."
Halbrecht bared his teeth, his voice a guttural growl. "Then end it."
Steel clashed.
The rebels surged forward, screaming, and the hall exploded in slaughter.
The last knights of Greymoor fought like rabid dogs. Shields splintered, swords rang, and men screamed as blood sprayed across the marble.
A knight rammed into Riven, nearly driving him to the floor, but Riven's chain whipped around his helm, yanking it sideways with a crack that snapped his neck. Laughing through blood, Riven spat, "Next!"
Another lunged at Kael, blade whistling. Kael barely parried, stumbling back with a curse, before Aldric cleaved the knight down in one brutal stroke. Kael gasped, panting, "I thought these guys were finished!"
"They are," Aldric snarled, kicking the corpse aside. "They just don't know it yet."
Damian carved his way methodically through the chaos, blade rising and falling with merciless precision. "Stay tight! Don't let them isolate you!"
The last knight standing swung wildly at him, roaring with the madness of despair. Damian caught the strike, twisted, and drove his sword straight through the man's throat.
And then it was over.
Halbrecht stood alone.
Blood dripped from his sword. His chest heaved like a bellows, sweat and gore slick across his swollen face. For a moment, he looked every bit the beast he was called — a cornered boar, eyes wild, tusks bared.
He roared, swinging once, twice, driving the rebels back with sheer rage. But his strikes grew weaker. His knees buckled. The strength bled out of him with every breath.
Then, with a groan, he collapsed to his knees, his sword clattering against the marble.
The throne room fell utterly silent.
Halbrecht's chest heaved, his face twisted — and then it broke. The roar died in his throat, replaced by a choked, trembling whimper.
"Mercy…" he gasped, blood and spit dribbling down his chin. His meaty hands clawed at the air, reaching toward the three "gods." "Spare me… I'll serve you… anything… please, don't kill me…"
The Boar of Greymoor, once feared across his domain, knelt in his own hall, begging like a dog for scraps.
The rebels stared in stunned silence. Some spat, others laughed. The hall echoed with whispers:
"The boar begs."
"The gods broke him."
Damian, Kael, and Riven stood above him, their faces shadowed in the firelight — the victors, the usurpers, the newborn lords.
The House of Greymoor had fallen.
The Boar Brought Low
The hall reeked of blood and smoke. Bodies sprawled across the marble, armor twisted, banners burning to ash. Only Halbrecht remained upright — on his knees, broken and weeping, his bulk heaving with pathetic sobs.
Damian stared down at him, face hard, voice colder than steel. "You called yourself lord. A ruler. A master of men. And now you crawl at our feet."
Kael wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his sleeve, a bitter laugh bubbling out. "Look at him. This fat bastard burned peasants alive, boiled men in pots, and now he's begging like a whipped mutt."
Riven crouched down in front of Halbrecht, chain dangling in one hand, grin wide and merciless. He tilted his head. "Pathetic. The 'Boar of Greymoor'? More like a fucking piglet squealing for its mommy."
The rebels howled with laughter, their jeers echoing against the high walls. "Piglet! Piglet!" they chanted, the once-feared name of Halbrecht drowned in mockery.
Halbrecht's face twisted, but no roar came. Only more tears, more whimpers. "Please… gods… mercy…"
Damian straightened, voice carrying over the crowd. "We are not your gods. We are your reckoning."
He turned to Aldric and the rebels. "Chain him. Drag him down into the dungeons. He will face judgment in the eyes of the people."
Chains clattered as Halbrecht was seized, his swollen arms bound behind him. He whimpered as they yanked him to his feet, stumbling, dragged like a common criminal across the corpses of his own men. The hall thundered with the roar of rebels as their hated tyrant was taken.
The remaining priests and nobles, pale and trembling, were shoved forward by rebels, their silks and jewels smeared with ash. Some wailed, some cursed, but all were herded away to the dungeons to await their own trials.
The CEOs stood upon the dais, looking down at the ruined throne, the broken banners, the conquered hall. Smoke curled around them, firelight glinting off steel.
Kael exhaled, almost a laugh. "Holy shit. We actually did it. We fucking took it."
Riven planted the rebel banner — their crude, blood-painted sigil — into the stone steps of the throne. The rebels roared, the hall trembling with their cries.
Damian simply looked out over the sea of bloodied faces, his voice steady and absolute.
"This is no longer the House of Greymoor."
The hall fell quiet, hanging on his words.
"It is the House of Voss Arclight Cross."
The roar that followed shook the castle to its foundations.
And beneath it, in the dungeons, Halbrecht's sobs carried into the dark.