Part I : The Guild -I
Maeve had reached the Merchant's Guild long before Faelan. The moment she saw the orange glow of the fire from her inn window, her mind had worked through the probabilities. Faelan, impulsive and honor-bound, would have caused the chaos. He would now have a group of traumatized children with him. An inn was too public, too suspicious. He would need a secure, local connection. He would go for Barnaby. And Barnaby would be here. So, she waited in the shadows, a patient predator.
The streets around the Guild were deserted, the city's attention drawn to the spectacle of the burning church. Faelan arrived, a weary shepherd leading a flock of nineteen silent, wide-eyed children. As he reached the grand, closed doors of the Guild, a figure detached itself from the deep shadows of an adjacent alley. It was Maeve.
"You've collected more strays," she observed, her voice a dry, sarcastic whisper as her eyes scanned the expanded group. "You missed your calling, Fae. You should have been a nanny."
A wave of profound relief washed over Faelan at the sight of her. "Maeve," he breathed, a grateful smile touching his lips. "You're here."
"We'll talk inside," she said, her tone all business. "Let's hope our Halfling connection is as good as we think."
Faelan knocked, a series of sharp, rhythmic raps on the heavy oak door. After a long moment, a small viewing slit slid open, and a pair of wary eyes peered out. The door opened a crack, a Halfling guard blocking the way. "Yes?" he uttered.
"Pip Applebottom from Oakhaven sent us," Faelan said, his voice low and urgent. "We need to find Barnaby." He held up the small copper necklace with the stonehenge insignia.
The Halfling's eyes darted from the insignia to Faelan's face, then to Maeve, and finally to the crowd of silent children. His expression remained flat, unreadable. "Come with me," he said, opening the door just wide enough for them to slip through.
The Halfling's eyes darted from the insignia to Faelan's face, then to Maeve, and finally to the crowd of silent children. His expression remained flat, unreadable. "Come with me," he said, opening the door just wide enough for them to slip through.
He led them through the dark, echoing main hall of the Guild and into a small, cluttered back office. He turned to Faelan. "The children wait here." It was not a request.
Faelan hesitated, but a sharp look from Maeve told him to comply. He gave a reassuring nod to the older children, and he and Maeve followed the guard into another, smaller room lined with bookshelves. The guard looked at them both. "Turn around."
They obeyed. They heard a series of soft clicks as the Halfling pulled specific books in a precise sequence. A section of the bookshelf swung inward with a whisper of well-oiled hinges, revealing a dark, narrow staircase descending into the earth.
"You'll find him down there," the guard said, and then silently retreated, the secret door swinging shut behind them, plunging them into darkness until Faelan conjured a small, floating ball of light.
They descended into a cool, dry cellar that smelled of old wine and parchment. It led to a single, well-lit room. There, at a large wooden desk covered in maps, letters, and small, coded scraps of paper, sat an old Halfling, an eyeglass screwed into one eye as he meticulously examined a document.
Faelan and Maeve stopped before the desk. After a long moment, the Halfling looked up, his sharp, intelligent eyes taking in the two grim-faced warriors who had just appeared in his secret sanctuary.
The old Halfling looked up from his papers, his eyes sharp and analytical behind the eyeglass.
"Are you the one they call Barnaby?" Faelan asked, his voice low in the quiet cellar.
"That depends entirely on who is asking," the Halfling replied, his tone as dry as old parchment.
"Pip sent us."
Barnaby's posture relaxed, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Then you must be the Dawnbreakers" His gaze sharpened, and his voice became urgent, dropping all pretense. "Before anything else, tell me of the boy. My nephew's letter was… brief. Is he well? Has he regained his strength?"
"He is safer now than he has been," Maeve answered, her voice calm and measured.
A genuine, relieved smile touched Barnaby's lips. "Good. That is good." He gestured to the chairs across from his desk. "Sit. Pour yourselves some wine. And tell me what brings Lyra's finest to my little corner of the world."
"We're on a rescue mission," Maeve stated plainly as she sat. "For Lord Tybalt."
Barnaby's smile vanished. He sat down heavily, the movement that of a man suddenly burdened by an immense weight. "Then I fear you are too late," he sighed. "The major noble houses are already here. Vorlag is planning a spectacle. Tomorrow, at the stadium. He'll parade Tybalt before the crowds, brand him the king-slayer and a failed usurper, and blame him for every misery the empire has suffered. Then, he will execute him and declare himself the savior."
Maeve's jaw tightened, her mind racing, thinking of the time they had lost.
"The nobles will swear fealty," Barnaby continued, his voice a grim monotone. "Vorlag will announce reforms to placate the populace. The stage is set. If you had arrived a day or two sooner, we might have had options. Now… it is a done deal."
"We haven't come this far to return with only bad news," Maeve said, her voice dangerously quiet.
"Unless you plan to assault a stadium filled with the entire city guard, there is no other way," Barnaby countered.
"Do you know where they're holding him now?" Faelan asked, pacing the small room like a caged wolf.
"Somewhere in the palace, under heavy guard," Barnaby replied. "And it's impregnable. Vorlag is no fool. He's blocked every secret passage, every sewer grate. He knows the palace's weaknesses as well as Tybalt did."
Seeing the despair on their faces, the old Halfling leaned forward. "You cannot save Lord Tybalt," he said softly. "But you may yet learn something of value." He looked from Maeve to Faelan. "Since you are Lyra's most trusted, I will share what I know. Vorlag has summoned the patriarchs of the great houses for a private meeting tonight. I have… sources… in that room. By morning, I may have information that could be of use to you. It's not the rescue you came for, but it's something."
Faelan, defeated, stopped his pacing. His mind, thwarted from its primary objective, turned to the other horror he'd witnessed. "The church we left the children at… it was a front for the slave trade. Were you aware?"
A look of profound shame crossed Barnaby's face. He couldn't meet Faelan's gaze. "Yes."
"Then why didn't you do something?" Faelan demanded.
"And do what?" Barnaby retorted, a flicker of anger in his weary voice. "Report them to whom? The city guard that protects their caravans? The Commander, whose own sons take a cut of the profits?"
"Then why is he outlawing it?" Maeve questioned, her strategist's mind seeking the motive.
Barnaby let out a single, harsh laugh. "Outlawing? It's a facade! Vorlag filled the army's ranks with mercenaries and criminals to secure his coup. Now they're running wild, and the people don't trust the uniform. He needs to restore public faith. So he'll make a grand show of 'cleaning up the city,' all while his own family gets rich in the shadows. He is a man who cannot tolerate any threat to his power, real or perceived."
"There are nineteen children upstairs," Faelan said, the weight of his own rash decision pressing down on him.
"I can offer them sanctuary for a time," Barnaby replied. "And safe passage in a merchant caravan to a destination of your choosing."
Faelan thought for a moment. "Fletcher's Cross. There is an orphanage there that will take them."
Barnaby nodded, making a note. He then looked at the two grim-faced warriors sitting in his cellar. "So, I ask you now. What will you do?"
A heavy, defeated silence filled the room. For the first time since they had set out on their desperate mission, neither the warrior nor the strategist had an answer.
Part II: The palace-I
In a dark palace hall, Commander Vorlag stood silhouetted against a tall, vertical window, watching the distant orange glow of the burning church. The only other light came from the fireplace crackling beneath the new, stark banner of the three howling wolves.
A servant entered, his head bowed low. "Pardon, Lord Commander. The nobles have arrived for the meeting."
"Bring them in," Vorlag said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very glass in the window.
A moment later, the great doors opened. The first to enter was Lord Martyn of House Vicant, a man whose boisterous confidence far outstripped his wisdom. With arms outstretched and a wide, familiar smile, he boomed, "Vorlag, my old friend! A new era begins!" He strode forward, but a guard's armored arm blocked his path, silently directing him to a seat at the long, lavishly-set dining table.
"Must you always make so much noise, Martyn?" another noble, Percival, sighed as he took the seat next to him. One by one, the great lords and ladies of Magellan filed in, taking their places. Vorlag finally turned from the window and took the single seat at the head of the table, facing his banner.
A woman in her forties, her beautiful face just beginning to show the lines of age and worry, was the first to speak. Her voice was confident, raspy with authority. "Lord Commander, we are grateful for your hospitality, but why have we all been summoned to the capital with such urgency?"
Before Vorlag could answer, Martyn leaned forward. "Lady Calista, if I may, first allow me to express my deepest sorrows for the loss of your son. Lumina is a dangerous place." He then continued, his tone shifting back to its usual oily enthusiasm. "As for our meeting, it is clear! With the tragic, traitorous deaths of our king and prince at the hands of Lord Tybalt, the kingdom requires a new ruler!"
"Isn't that decided?" Percival interjected. "Vorlag is now the highest authority on the council."
"Power and legitimacy are not the same, my dear Percival," Martyn said dismissively. "The people, the Confederacy Parliament… they will never accept a common-born king."
Before he could continue, a strange sound filled the room—a low, rumbling chuckle from the head of the table. It was the sound of a man unaccustomed to laughter. All eyes turned to Vorlag. He was smiling. It was a terrifying sight.
He stood, threw a few more logs into the fireplace, and turned back to them, picking up an apple and a small, sharp knife. "You truly are something, the lot of you," he said, the smile never leaving his face. He began to walk slowly down the length of the table, peeling the apple in one long, continuous spiral.
"You believe your money, your history, your blood gives you the right to rule?" he mused. "You, who sat on the council and watched this kingdom bleed while you lined your coffers with its gold?"
An old noble, Orin Ashworth, shot to his feet. "We will not be insulted, Commander!"
Vorlag stopped, his eyes locking onto the old man. He moved closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow louder than a shout. "Oh, you will sit, Mister Ashworth. And you will listen." The use of the common title was a deliberate, emasculating blow. Orin Ashworth sank back into his chair, his face pale.
Vorlag continued his walk until he stood directly behind Martyn's chair. He finished his apple.
"Because in this room," Vorlag's voice returned to its normal, commanding volume, "legitimacy…" He leaned forward, and with a single, smooth motion, drew the apple knife across Martyn's throat. "…and power…"
Martyn's eyes went wide, a look of comical surprise turning to horror as his own life sprayed across the table in a hot, crimson torrent. Percival and Lady Morwen of House Emberfall were drenched in it.
"…are the same thing."
Vorlag calmly signaled a servant, who brought him a clean towel. Lord Ashworth looked as if he might faint. Lady Morwen was frozen, her eyes wide, her face and white silk dress a mask of red. Vorlag knelt beside her, and with a chilling, intimate gentleness, began to wipe the blood from her face.
"You see," he said softly, his voice calm as he worked. "You were not summoned here to give opinions. The old council way is over. You are here to obey." He finished cleaning her face, his thumb running over her trembling lips. She flinched as if struck by lightning.
He walked back to his seat, standing behind it and leaning forward on his hands. "The old ways end tonight. From this moment, you are nobles in name only. Your lands, your taxation rights, your armies—they are mine. Your palaces and the grounds around them will remain yours, for now. You will eat what I offer you, breathe when I tell you, and you will consent, publicly, to every reform I make." He let his gaze sweep across their terrified faces. "And should any of you even think of rebellion… remember that every soldier in every corner of this empire is mine now."
He gestured to a servant. "Tell Lord Martyn's family he suffered a sudden, tragic heart attack. His son is the new head of House Vicant. And send his wife to my chambers. She will need… consoling. And guidance on her son's new role."
The veiled threat, the promise of sexual violence, hung in the air, a final, brutal nail in the coffin of their pride.
Vorlag smiled again. "What's holding you, ladies and gentlemen? Your dinner is getting cold."
And so, at a table soaked in blood, with a dead man still sitting amongst them, the great nobles of Magellan, trembling, began to eat.
Part III - The Guild-II
Upstairs, in the secret room of the Merchant's Guild, Faelan and Maeve moved like ghosts, helping to settle the sleeping children into makeshift beds. The silence between them was thick with the weight of Barnaby's grim revelations. The mission was a failure before it had even begun.
After the last child was asleep, Faelan stood staring down at their innocent, peaceful faces. He looked at Maeve, his own face a mask of guilt and defeat. "What do we do now, Maeve?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Maeve, who had been staring blankly at the wall, her mind replaying every failed possibility, finally took a slow breath. "We wait," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "We wait for Elwin's report. If there's a delay, if the ceremony is postponed for any reason, we might still have a window. A small one."
"A window we would have had if I hadn't wasted our time," Faelan mumbled, the words laced with self-loathing.
Maeve turned to him, her sharp eyes cutting through his despair. "Don't," she said, her voice hard as flint. "Don't waste what little energy we have on regret. We deal with the cards we are dealt, Faelan, not the ones we wish we had. Now, get some rest. We have a long day of waiting tomorrow."
Part IV : The Palace-II
Elwin separated from Maeve at the North Gate and melted into the shadows of Bluemoth. His task was clear: locate Lord Tybalt and identify weaknesses in the palace's defenses. It proved to be a futile endeavor. The palace was a fortress, bristling with Vorlag's soldiers. Every approach was watched, every wall patrolled. He tried a dozen different ways to get close, all leading to failure. Frustrated, he scaled a nearby watchtower, but the inner workings of the palace remained a mystery. To enter alone would be suicide.
As he was about to retreat and report his failure, the night sky to the east erupted in a brilliant orange glow. Shouts and bells began to echo through the city. The church was on fire. He watched as patrols on the palace walls broke formation, their attention drawn to the chaos. It was an unexpected, chaotic, and perfect opportunity.
Elwin moved. He was not as adept at masking his presence as Faelan or Lyra; he could only wreath the soles of his boots in Aura, a trick that silenced his steps but did nothing to hide his form. He entered the palace grounds and flitted from shadow to shadow, his heart pounding with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. He slipped into the main building through a servant's entrance, a ghost moving through opulent, empty halls, past kitchens and cavernous dining rooms.
He was about to give up his search of the main floors when he chanced upon a hushed, angry exchange. A young maid, carrying a tray with a meager plate of food, was stopped by a guard at the top of a descending stairwell.
"Here is the meal for Lord—" the maid began.
"He is no lord here," the guard snarled, cutting her off. "He is a traitor. Address him as such, or you'll be sharing his cell."
The maid bowed her head, terrified. "My apologies. I will remember."
The guard laughed, a short, ugly sound. "No, you won't. You won't have to." He snatched the tray and started down the stairs.
Elwin tailed him, a shadow in the guard's own shadow. The spiral staircase was long and dark, lit only by the guard's single, swaying lantern. It opened into a huge, cold hallway lined with five heavy, iron-bound doors, each locked from the outside.
Elwin hid behind a stack of crates as the guard stopped before the last door. He unlocked it, kicked it open, and threw the plate inside, its contents skittering across the stone floor.
"Eat up, traitor," the guard boomed into the darkness of the cell. "It's the last meal you'll ever have. A gift from the Lord Commander before he sends your kinslaying soul to the hells you deserve."
Elwin, hiding behind some barrels inside the cell, watched as the guard entered. He walked to a long casket, opened it, and pulled out a magnificent longsword. He swung it once, the blade whistling, bringing the edge to rest a hair's breadth from the prisoner's neck. "Oh, how I wish I was the one to deliver justice tomorrow," he whispered, then placed the sword back in its casket, and left, the heavy door booming shut, the lock scraping into place.
Throughout the entire ordeal, the man in chains had not made a single sound.
Minutes passed. The guard's footsteps faded. Elwin remained perfectly still in the absolute darkness.
A voice, dry and raspy from thirst and pain, cut through the silence. "You can come out now. Your breathing is louder than the rats."
Elwin moved from behind the barrels. He knelt, holding his palm out, and with a whispered word, a small, bright flame bloomed to life, pushing back the oppressive dark.
In its light, he saw him. A man, chained to the far wall, his body a canvas of fresh, bloody slashes from a whip, his face a swollen, bruised ruin. But his eyes, even in the flickering light, were sharp, intelligent, and utterly unbroken.
Elwin's own voice was calm and serious. "Are you Lord Tybalt?"
The man in chains shifted, the movement sending a dry, rustling sound through the cell. "It's been a while," he rasped, his voice a dry crackle of disuse, "since anyone has called me a Lord."
It was him. Elwin didn't hesitate. He drew a dagger and moved to the heavy chains binding Tybalt to the wall. "Hold still."
"Don't bother," Tybalt said, a hint of grim, ironic amusement in his voice. "The lock on this door is a Dwarven ward-puzzle I commissioned myself. Unless you're an Adept-level mage with a talent for unbinding, you're not opening it from the inside. Not without the key."
Elwin froze, the dagger useless in his hand. The full weight of the situation crashed down on him. The locked door. The single guard. The isolation. "Then… I've just walked into my own doom?" he whispered, his own bravery turning to ash in his mouth.
Tybalt offered a weak, bloody smile. "It would seem so, kid."
"What do we do?" Elwin asked, his voice rising with a frantic edge, a desperate hope for a way out.
Tybalt sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion. "You still don't get it, do you? There is nothing left to be done." He looked at Elwin, his eyes holding no hope, only a grim, final clarity. "Tomorrow morning, the guards will come. Not one, but a dozen. They will take us to the stadium, and they will chop off our heads in front of the entire city. That is what we do now."
Elwin's heart hammered against his ribs. He began to pace the small cell like a trapped animal, the reality of his own imminent death a suffocating presence.
"You haven't told me who you are," Tybalt's dry voice cut through his panic. "Or why you were foolish enough to come here."
Elwin stopped, taking a ragged breath. "Elwin. Of the Dawnbreakers."
A new light entered Tybalt's eyes. "Lyra sent you." His posture shifted, his voice now filled with a desperate, urgent fear. "The boy. My nephew. Did he make it? Did Arthur reach her?"
"Yes," Elwin confirmed.
For the first time, a look of pure, unadulterated relief washed over Tybalt's ruined face. "Thank the gods," he breathed. The smile that followed was genuine. "That's good. That's all that matters." He looked at Elwin, his curiosity returning. "But why would she send you here? For me?"
Elwin was bewildered. "You're her family, aren't you? She said she wanted you rescued. So here I am."
"Are there more of you?"
"Not in the palace. I was just the scout. Supposed to find your location and report back." Elwin walked to the door, peering through the small grate at the empty, dark hallway. "I guess I won't be doing that now."
A change came over Elwin. The terror receded, replaced by a strange, almost manic resolve. He picked up the discarded plate of food, walked over to Tybalt, and knelt.
"Eat," he said, his voice now firm. "We'll need you at full strength for the escape tomorrow."
Tybalt looked at him, utterly confused. Elwin's gaze then drifted to the long casket containing the sword. A slow, prideful smile spread across his face, a look of pure, defiant bravado.
"I have a plan."
Part V: The Stadium
The morning air in Bluemoth was cold and sharp. Faelan and Maeve stood like statues in the shadow of the Merchant's Guild gate, waiting. The city was already awake, its citizens prodded from their homes by patrols, a river of humanity flowing towards the grand stadium.
A familiar, lanky figure appeared in the distance, yawning as he walked. "Look, Elwin's here," Faelan said, a note of relief in his voice.
Maeve, who was facing him, turned. Her body went rigid. Her voice was flat, devoid of all emotion, which was more terrifying than any panic. "That's Edwin."
As the twin reached them, his face was a mask of sleepy confusion. "Where's my brother?"
The question hung in the cold air, a death sentence. The look that passed between Maeve and Faelan was one of dawning, shared horror. Elwin, the scout, the one sent to the most dangerous location, was gone. Captured. Or worse.
Edwin's face drained of color. He opened his mouth to protest, to demand they search, but Maeve's gaze, as hard and cold as a winter stone, silenced him.
"We can't wait," she said, her voice a low, brutal command. "He's compromised. We proceed with the mission."
The walk to the stadium was a grim, silent march. They blended into the crowd, three ghosts in a river of the living. Inside, the massive arena was already filling up. A heavy wooden platform stood in the center, an executioner's block its grim centerpiece.
Edwin's eyes were drawn to the VIP section, where a small, ornate brick platform protruded onto the field. A golden, spherical instrument with a glowing gem at its center rested on its edge. "What's that?" he whispered.
"Voice amplifier, a Dwarven Artefacr" Faelan answered, his own eyes scanning the entry points and guard patrols. "Military-grade. Vorlag wants everyone to hear what happens today."
Maeve's gaze was fixed on the soldiers. "Their unit badges," she murmured. "Second-tier city guard. Not Vorlag's elites."
Faelan nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. "My little bonfire at the church must have pulled the real mages away to secure the area."
"A small blessing," she conceded.
Maeve pulled them closer, her eyes scanning the arena like a hawk mapping its hunting ground. There was no plan. She would have to forge one now, from fire and desperation. When she spoke, her voice was a barely audible, rapid-fire whisper.
"Edwin. You get as close to that VIP section as you can. When the executioner raises his axe, you create chaos. I don't care how. Start a fire. Cause a panic. Burn a few nobles if you have to."
She turned her gaze to the high rafters on the north side. "I'll be up there. Barnaby has horses for us beyond the North Gate; it's our only way out. I'll take out any strays that get in your way."
Her eyes finally settled on Faelan. "That leaves you. Get as close to that platform as possible. The moment Edwin makes his move, the crowd will stampede. In that chaos, you take the executioner, and you get Tybalt."
"Understood," they both replied in unison, their voices grim.
Maeve looked at them both, the weight of their near-suicidal plan settling upon them. "Lyra's final order stands," she whispered, her voice like the hiss of a drawn arrow. "Do not get caught."
The three of them found positions, melting into the vast, anxious crowd that filled the stadium. The air was cold, but the mood was hot with a nervous, angry energy. The nobles ,in all their finery, took their seats in the VIP section. Finally, Vorlag himself arrived. He had shed his military uniform for the opulent, dark robes of the late king, a silent, audacious claim to power. He took his seat on the central, throne-like chair, a stoic, unmovable wolf watching over his new domain.
A hush fell over the stadium. An old, respected nobleman, Lord Orin Ashworth, walked with a slow, heavy gait toward the golden voice amplifier on the brick platform. His face was a mask of solemn grief.
"Friends… citizens of Magellan," Orin began, his voice, magically amplified, echoing through the arena with a sorrowful gravity. "I imagine you are all wondering why you have been summoned here today. You have been summoned for the only thing that truly matters. The truth."
He let the word hang in the air. "For a decade, we have watched our great kingdom wither. We have seen our friends, our neighbors, fall into poverty. We have seen our enemies, the beastfolk, grow bold, stealing our children from their very beds. And we have asked, why? It was all because of one man."
The crowd was a sea of rapt, angry faces.
"A kinslayer," Orin's voice grew louder, filled with righteous fury. "A kingslayer! A traitor, driven by a lust for power, who saw his brother's illness as an opportunity. He tricked the council! He misused our trust! I speak, of course, of Lord Tybalt!"
On cue, a gate opened, and Tybalt was marched onto the central platform, flanked by an executioner and two men carrying a long, heavy casket. His hands were chained, his head was bowed, but even bruised and beaten, he walked with an unbroken dignity.
The sight of him was a spark to a powder keg. The crowd erupted. They threw rotten fruit, stones, anything they could find, their collective misery now focused on a single, convenient face. From their seats, Faelan and Maeve watched in horror, their hands clenched into fists.
Orin raised his hands, silencing the mob. "This man," he boomed, pointing at Tybalt, "with the help of his co-conspirators, captured the palace and, in a single, bloody night…" Orin's voice broke, a masterful performance of grief. "…he murdered our beloved king and the young prince!"
He let the crowd's roar of outrage swell before continuing, his voice now a tearful plea. "I ask you all! What justice is fit for such a monster?"
"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!" the crowd chanted, a single, monstrous voice.
"But he was not alone!" Orin shouted. Another man brought a case to the platform and opened it, revealing the severed, blue-tinged heads of Captain Valerius and Lord Martyn Vicant. "When our saviors retook the city, they brought the traitor Valerius to justice. And when Lord Martyn's own son learned of his father's treason, it was he who delivered the final, righteous blow!" He held the hand of a pale, terrified-looking boy who had been brought to the stage.
"But what of the others?" Orin continued, his voice resonating with power. "What of the nobles who assisted him? What of those who stood silent while our kingdom was raped? Justice must be served!" He turned and pointed dramatically towards the VIP section. "And our new King, Vorlag, has delivered that justice!"
He faced the crowd again, his voice now full of triumphant joy. "I am proud to announce that, as of this day, slavery is outlawed in the Magellan kingdom! Furthermore, in his wisdom, our new king has given the silent and complicit nobles a chance to atone. We, the noble houses, have collectively agreed to cede our great estates to those who actually till the land! The serfs will have their rightful place!"
The crowd, which had been roaring for blood, now gasped, then erupted into a wave of ecstatic, disbelieving cheers.
He's not just taking the throne, Maeve thought, her blood running cold. He's buying the people's love with the nobles' land.
Orin Ashworth let the cheers wash over him before delivering his final line. "And with that, I give you the first taste of justice under our new king!" he roared, pointing to the platform where Tybalt now stood alone, the executioner unlocking the heavy casket beside him.
The executioner, a mountain of a man in a black leather hood, stepped toward the heavy casket. He knelt, his thick fingers fumbling with the iron clasps. As the lid creaked open, a sudden, profound silence fell over the roaring stadium. The jeers and catcalls died in thousands of throats, replaced by a collective, confused gasp.
From her perch high in the stadium's rafters, Maeve's sharp eyes saw it first. Faelan, poised to move, saw it a second later. Even Edwin, his heart hammering in his chest near the VIP section, stared dumbfounded.
The executioner's body went rigid. His hands fell away from the casket. A thin, almost delicate dagger handle was suddenly protruding from the side of his neck, a single, perfect drop of blood tracing a path down his skin. He swayed on his feet, a look of comical surprise on his face, before collapsing onto the platform with the unceremonious thud of a felled ox.
Edwin knew, with a certainty that burned through his fear, that this was the moment—the unplanned, chaotic, perfect signal.
He thrust his hands forward. Not a word was spoken, but a deafening, percussive shockwave erupted from the ground near the nobles' section. The very air seemed to tear. The crowd cried out as one, hands flying to their ears. Guards stumbled, nobles cowered. The only figure in the entire stadium who remained unmoved was Vorlag, who sat upon his throne-like chair like an island of granite in a storm, his eyes narrowed with cold, analytical fury.
Edwin didn't wait. He cast his second spell, pouring all his fear for his brother into the magic. A magnificent phoenix made of pure, liquid fire burst into existence above the VIP section. It swooped down, its wings shedding embers that blossomed into hungry flames on the silks and velvets of the horrified nobles. Old Lord Orin Ashworth shrieked as his robes went up like a torch.
The stadium erupted. The carefully orchestrated spectacle was shattered, replaced by the primal, screaming chaos of a stampede. No one was looking at the platform now.
This was Faelan's chance.
A violent, purple Aura flared to life around his legs. He was a blur, a violet streak carving a path through the surging crowd. As he vaulted onto the platform, he saw it—a figure, cloaked in shadow, vaulted from
within the casket itself, landing in a crouch.
It was Elwin. With a sweep of his hands, a roiling, unnatural fog billowed out, swallowing the platform in an instant.
Inside the mist, Faelan's sword, wreathed in its own Aura, shattered Tybalt's chains with a single, ringing strike. He grinned, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the twin who was already helping the battered lord to his feet.
"It's good to see you alive, Elwin," Faelan said, his voice a low rumble in the chaos.
Elwin, sweating and pale but with a triumphant glint in his eye, shot back, "Gods, I was about to kill myself in there. If I had to listen to Orin Ashworth praise Vorlag's name for one more second, you'd be rescuing two corpses."
They plunged into the tsunami of panicked bodies, Faelan draping his own cloak over Tybalt's shoulders to hide his chains and ruined clothes. From the rooftops, Maeve had her bow drawn. She saw the three figures moving through the chaos and began to clear their path. A guard at a street corner suddenly stiffened and fell, an arrow sprouting from his back. Faelan glanced up, catching a glimpse of Maeve's silhouette, and gave a brief, grim nod—a silent conversation between professionals.
They regrouped near the North Gate, Edwin appearing from the crowd to join them. The five of them stood for a moment in a pocket of relative calm, but it was short-lived. The great city bell began to toll, a frantic, clanging alarm. A squad of five soldiers guarding the gate, who had been trying to control the exodus, turned, their spears leveled.
"Halt!" one of them shouted, his eyes widening as he recognized the battered face of Lord Tybalt.
Faelan passed Tybalt's arm to the twins. "We don't have time for this," he growled.
He drew his sword. His legs, his sword arm, and the blade itself became enveloped in a furious violet Aura. He moved. It wasn't a charge; it was an erasure. A lethal dance of steel and light that lasted no more than five heartbeats. The five soldiers crumpled to the ground before they had time to raise a proper defense.
"Show off," Edwin muttered, but the word was edged with genuine awe. Maeve simply allowed a small, knowing smirk to touch her lips.
They burst through the gate. In the distance, standing by a small wind tower, was the same Halfling guard from the Merchant's Guild, holding the reins of five sturdy horses. As they approached, he handed Maeve a folded piece of parchment, his face and voice utterly devoid of excitement.
"Boss said to pass this on. Rations are packed. You should go," he stated flatly, then turned and began walking back toward the city without another word.
"Thank you," Maeve called to his retreating back. "For everything."
They spurred their horses into a gallop, leaving the chaos of Bluemoth and the pyre of their failed mission behind them. They rode hard, the city's alarm bells fading into the wind. By nightfall, they had reached the oppressive, familiar gloom of the Weeping Woods. They made a cold, hidden camp, certain, for now, that no one was tailing them. The rescue was over. The escape had just begun.
Part VI: The Woods again
The Weeping Woods reclaimed them. The oppressive quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos of Bluemoth, felt less like peace and more like a held breath. As night fell, they made a cold camp in a shallow alcove by a sluggish, black-water rivulet. The mission was, in a sense, complete. They had their ghost. But the taste of victory was as bitter as the forest air.
No one spoke. The silence was a heavy shroud, woven from exhaustion and the unspoken weight of what they had witnessed. Tybalt, a collapsed ruin of a man, was the center of their quiet gravity. The torture had stripped him to bone and nerve; his leg, still healing from the spear wound taken for Arthur's sake, was a swollen, angry red.
The twins moved with a gentle efficiency that belied their fatigue. They eased Tybalt from his horse, his body so limp it was like lowering a corpse. A pained, guttural sound escaped his throat as they settled him against a rock. Edwin immediately brought water, holding the skin to Tybalt's cracked, bleeding lips.
Meanwhile, Faelan and Maeve melted into the surrounding gloom, their movements synchronized and silent. They scouted the perimeter, a pair of weary wolves ensuring no greater predator lurked in the shadows. When they returned, the small, smokeless fire was lit.
"The immediate area is clear," Faelan reported, his voice a low murmur.
"Nowhere is safe until we're through Oakhaven's gates," Maeve countered, her pragmatism a sharp edge against his relief. She knelt beside Tybalt, her eyes performing a cold, clinical assessment. He was a canvas of horrors—open, weeping lacerations from the whip, eyes sunken into dark pits, a faint, feverish tremor in his hands.
She rose, her voice crisp with command. "His condition is critical. Edwin, he's your charge. Water, the slurry biscuits, every hour. Watch his breathing. Report any change."
Edwin gave a sharp, determined nod.
"Elwin," she continued, "I need ingredients. Nightshade weed for the fever, forkfern moss to pack the wounds, and if you can find one, the bile of a giant centipede. Move."
Elwin vanished into the darkness without a word. Maeve let out a sigh, a sound of pure, frustrated weariness. "It would be easier with Aeris here," she muttered, a rare admission of need.
Edwin managed to get a few sips of water and a mouthful of the tasteless, life-sustaining slurry into Tybalt. The man's eyes fluttered open, finding Edwin's face. His voice was a dry rasp, barely a whisper. "Thanks..."
"Save it," Maeve said, her tone not unkind, but absolute. "You're not home yet."
With the camp settled into a grim routine, Faelan drew Maeve aside, out of earshot of the others. "The parchment, Maeve. What did Barnaby say?"
She pulled the small scroll from her tunic. In the dim firelight, her face, usually a mask of calm calculation, became a canvas of warring emotions. Faelan watched as her eyes darted across the tiny, coded script, her brow furrowed, a flicker of something he couldn't name—triumph? despair?—in her gaze.
When she finished, she simply stared into the darkness, the parchment held loose in her hand.
"What is it?" Faelan pressed.
"I don't know whether to be ecstatic or heartbroken," she whispered, the words hanging in the cold air.
"What do you mean?"
"Vorlag has won, Fae," she began, her mind clearly racing, piecing together the grim mosaic. "He didn't just summon the nobles. He broke them. He murdered Martyn Vicant at the dinner table as a warning, stripped them all of their lands and armies, and forced them to consent to his rule."
Faelan stared, uncomprehending. "But… that's a victory for us! If he's turned every great house against him, they'll flock to Arthur's cause!"
"You think they have a choice?" Maeve shot back, her voice a low, furious hiss. "They're a sword with no edge, an army with no soldiers. Vorlag holds every piece on the board. They are puppets, and he is the only one pulling the strings."
"But Tybalt can still go to the Confederacy Parliament!" Faelan insisted, clinging to the original plan. "He can rally the other kingdoms! Block Vorlag's legitimacy!"
Maeve looked at him, her eyes filled with a weary pity. "You're thinking like a loyalist, Fae, not a tyrant. Vorlag doesn't play by the rules. If the Parliament moves against him, he'll simply pull Magellan out of the Confederacy. The game ends because he'll flip the entire board over."
"That means war! The other kingdoms will unite against him!"
"Will they?" Maeve's voice was cold as a crypt. "Without the Magellan houses protesting the secession, the Parliament has no casus belli. It would be an illegal invasion, and they know it. Add to that, after the spectacle at the stadium, the people of Magellan see Tybalt as a king-slaying monster. He has no support, no power. Proving Arthur is even alive would be another war in itself."
The logic was brutal, absolute, and flawless. Maeve let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since Bluemoth. "We won the battle at the stadium, Fae. But reading this... I think Vorlag just won the war."
Defeat, cold and total, settled over Faelan. He looked over at the broken man by the fire, the prize for which they had risked everything. "So this was all for nothing," he whispered, the words tasting like ash.
Maeve followed his gaze. Her expression was grim, but the strategist in her was still working, still calculating.
"Tactically? It was a disaster," she admitted. "But we took the enemy's most valuable piece off the board. Even if we don't know how to use him yet."
The return journey was a grim, three-day affair. They moved with a hunter's caution, skirting the territories of C-rank beasts like Morse Boars and nests of Corpse-Cap Fungi. Their restored strength and Maeve's keen senses made the encounters brief and brutally efficient.
On the third day, they finally broke free of the Weeping Woods. As the sprawling, familiar walls of Oakhaven appeared on the horizon, they spurred their horses forward, a small, ragged party of ghosts finally returning to the world of the living.
Part VII : The Greywolves' depravity
(Warning: The following scene contains extremely graphic content, including sexual violence, torture, and incestuous rape. It is intended for a mature audience and depicts acts of profound cruelty to establish the story's antagonists. Reader discretion is strongly advised.)
The screams were not long and drawn-out, but short, sharp bursts of agony that echoed down the torchlit palace corridor. Two young men moved swiftly toward the sound, their boots silent on the marble floor. The one in front, Hugo Greywolf, strode with an arrogant fury. Trailing a step behind, his face pale and drawn, was Thomas Vicant, a boy of sixteen years forced to be the subordinate to his father's murderer.
Hugo didn't knock. He slammed the heavy oak door open, revealing a scene of opulent horror. In the center of the lavish bedchamber, before a roaring fireplace, Commander Vorlag was brutalizing Thomas's mother. Lady Isabella was bent over the bed, her body a canvas of red welts and blooming bruises. A sheen of sweat and something fouler coated her skin. Vorlag, still in his kingly robes, held a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back with each violent thrust.
Thomas froze in the doorway, his world narrowing to the sight of his mother's torment.
Hugo, however, was blind to it. His rage was singular, focused. "How?" he bellowed, his voice cracking with youthful indignation. "How does the most secure fortress on the continent misplace its most important prisoner? Why were our elite mages not at the stadium?"
Isabella's eyes, wide with pain and terror, found her son in the doorway. The screams caught in her throat, replaced by a wave of shame so profound it seemed to eclipse the physical agony. Thomas's own eyes flooded with tears. A single, choked word escaped his lips, a sound of pure anguish.
"Mother…"
The whisper was all it took. Hugo spun around, his face contorted in a mask of fury. "Do not interrupt when I am speaking to my father!" he roared. His fist connected with Thomas's jaw with a sickening crack.
The world became a red-and-black blur for Thomas. He hit the floor, and Hugo was on him, raining down punches and kicks. Blood poured from Thomas's nose, the coppery taste filling his mouth. When Hugo's fury was spent, he stood, breathing heavily, and turned back to his father.
Vorlag had not stopped. He continued his brutal rhythm, his face impassive.
"Father," Hugo said, his voice calmer now, but laced with petulance. "You let Tybalt escape. He'll find the fugitive prince. They will pose a chall—"
Vorlag stopped. He withdrew from Isabella's broken form and walked calmly to a decanter of wine by the window, seemingly unbothered by the blood, the screams, or his son's panic.
"Tybalt is not a lost piece," Vorlag said, his voice a low, chilling rumble. He took a sip of wine, watching the distant embers of the church fire die out. "He is a hunting dog I have just unleashed. He will run to the one place in this world he thinks is safe. He will lead us directly to the boy."
He turned, his cold eyes taking in Isabella's crumpled form, then shifting to his son. "You may have her, if you wish."
"I've already had my sport with another of the ladies," Hugo replied with a dismissive wave. His lips curled into a cruel, amused smirk as his gaze fell upon the bleeding Thomas on the floor. "But perhaps… Thomas would like a turn."
A new, colder despair fell over the room. Isabella turned her head, her voice a shattered, desperate rasp. "Please… my King… no…"
Vorlag merely smiled. He walked to the fireplace, took a long iron rod from the coals, its tip glowing a malevolent orange, and pressed it against the soft flesh of her inner thigh.
A horrifying, inhuman shriek tore from Isabella's throat, followed by the sickening hiss and acrid scent of seared flesh.
"You will do," Vorlag said, his voice calm amidst her screams, "precisely as my son wishes." He took a seat in a nearby armchair to watch.
Hugo hauled Thomas to his feet. "Come now, Thomas," he cooed, wiping a smear of blood from the boy's face with his thumb. "Your mother is waiting. Don't you want to please her?"
He forced the stumbling, broken boy toward the bed. Isabella tried to scramble away, to cover herself, but she had nowhere to go. Thomas stood frozen, his mind a void of shock and horror.
"Undress," Hugo commanded.
Thomas didn't move. Hugo's amusement vanished, replaced by cold anger. He saw Isabella's eyes pleading with Vorlag. He lunged forward, grabbing both Thomas's and Isabella's hair, and slammed their heads together.
"House Vicant has a future," Hugo hissed, his face inches from theirs. "It has your younger siblings. Or… it doesn't. The choice is yours." He released them and stepped back to get a better view. "Now, you filthy animal. Fuck. Your. Mother."
Isabella was sobbing silently, her body trembling uncontrollably. She turned back over, presenting her back to her own son. Thomas's hands trembled as they went to the laces of his trousers. A muffled cry, a sound of a soul being ripped in two, escaped Isabella's lips.
Thomas's movements were mechanical, a puppet's jerking dance. As he entered her from behind, Hugo retrieved a goblet of wine and came to stand beside them. He placed a hand on Thomas's spine, his touch a vile intimacy.
"Faster," Hugo whispered in his ear, pushing his hips to accelerate the motion.
Isabella's knuckles were white where she bit them, stifling the screams that threatened to tear her apart. Each thrust from her son was a fresh wave of damnation.
"If either of you finds the courage to kill yourselves," Hugo's voice purred from the darkness, "I will personally wipe the name Vicant from the face of the earth."
When it was over, Hugo laughed, a high, gleeful sound that echoed in the silent, horrified room. "Congratulations, Thomas! Perhaps you've just planted a new branch on the family tree." He turned to the weeping Isabella. "My, my, Lady Vicant. Your husband's body is not yet cold, and already you seek to be with child. How very ignoble of you."
From his chair, Vorlag's heavy voice cut through the haze. "Take them away. And have someone change the sheets."
"Gladly, Father," Hugo said with a mocking bow. He grabbed Isabella and Thomas by their hair and dragged them from the room, their bodies limp, their eyes vacant. The trauma was a chasm too deep to process.
In the hallway, two guards stood at attention. As Hugo passed with his broken prizes, one guard whispered to the other.
"I know she was the wife of a traitor. But gods… isn't this too much?"
The other guard's face was a mask of cold fury. "Too much?" he hissed back. "Did they think it was 'too much' when their tax collectors took our daughters for a night's 'sport'? Did they care when our wives starved while they feasted? Where was their nobility then? She should be grateful it is only the King and his son delivering her punishment."
The first guard fell silent, but as he stared at the dark stains on the carpet where Hugo had dragged them, his face was not convinced. "Aye," he muttered to himself. "But it still doesn't sit right."