The First Trial
Halbrecht ordered them unchained, one at a time, and thrown into the sand of the courtyard. First came Riven.
A knight in full plate armor, massive as a bear, stomped forward with a warhammer. The crowd cheered.
"Show us if you bleed, demon!" the knight snarled.
Riven rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and smirked. "Cute hammer. Compensating for something?"
The knight swung. The warhammer smashed into the sand, sending dirt flying. Riven sidestepped, grabbed the knight's wrist, and with brutal precision, dislocated it. The man screamed. The crowd gasped. Riven yanked the warhammer free and casually slammed the flat end into the knight's helmet, dropping him like a sack of turnips.
Riven raised the hammer high. "Next!"
Half the villagers screamed "demon!" The other half shouted "god!"
Halbrecht frowned. He had wanted blood, not awe.
The Second Trial
Next came Kael. Halbrecht had arranged a riddle contest with the castle's priest—an old man smug in his knowledge of scripture and lore.
The priest spoke: "Answer me this, stranger. What always runs but never walks, has a mouth but never talks?"
Kael blinked. Then laughed. "Are you kidding me? A river. That's first-grade bullshit."
The crowd gasped. The priest sputtered.
Kael smirked. "Try harder. Or do you people only have knockoff riddles from a children's book?"
Halbrecht's face darkened, but the villagers were stunned. Some whispered: He answered without pause. He must be blessed. Others muttered: He mocks holy men. He must be cursed.
The Third Trial
Finally, Damian was led forward. His test was simple: to stand before Lord Halbrecht himself, unchained, and swear loyalty.
The hall went silent as Damian approached, his black suit still torn from the crash yet somehow regal in the morning sun.
Halbrecht leaned forward, piggish eyes gleaming. "Kneel, stranger. Swear to me. Serve House Greymoor. Do this, and live."
Damian's eyes were cold steel. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. The silence stretched until even the birds stopped singing.
Then he spoke, voice low, razor-sharp.
"I do not kneel."
The words cut through the courtyard like a blade. Gasps erupted. A child cried. The priest fainted.
Halbrecht's face turned purple with rage. "Seize him!"
Knights surged forward.
Damian didn't resist. He allowed himself to be shackled again, eyes never leaving Halbrecht's. His smile was subtle, infuriating. It said one thing: You've already lost.
Whispers Beyond Greymoor – The Minor Houses Stir
While Greymoor burned with gossip, the minor lords of the region wasted no time.
In a smoky war tent a day's ride away, Lord Branth Hollowmere, a petty baron with more ambition than brains, sneered at the reports. "Halbrecht thinks he can hoard gods? We'll march on his lands. If these strangers are weapons, they will be mine."
In a gilded villa by the river, Lady Mirabel Cazwyn, famed for her silver tongue and endless debts, whispered to her courtiers. "If Greymoor holds omens, the Ten Houses will come. But while giants move, mice can steal the crumbs. Send gifts. Send spies. I want one of these sky demons in my bed before Halbrecht knows what he's lost."
The wolves were already circling.
Back in Greymoor, the villagers erupted into chaos—half screaming that gods had descended, half shouting that demons had cursed them.
Halbrecht raised his arms, trying to control the crowd, but it was too late. The omen had already spread, and no fat pig on a wooden chair could cage it.
The CEOs stood in chains, but even chained, they commanded the world's attention.
The Pig's Decision
The great hall of Greymoor stank of wine, sweat, and fear. Lord Halbrecht sat slumped in his chair, face red from rage, while his advisors circled like nervous vultures.
"They are too dangerous, my lord," one knight said, his voice shaking. "The villagers whisper of gods. Already, half the peasants refuse to pay their tithes. If we keep these strangers alive, rebellion will come."
"They could be useful!" countered another noble. "Think of their strength, their knowledge—if they serve us—"
"They will never serve!" roared the priest, slamming his book onto the table. "One spat on holy ground. One mocked sacred riddles. One defied your order to kneel. They are demons, I tell you, demons in human skin!"
Halbrecht's face twitched. His fat fingers dug into the armrest of his chair. He thought of Damian's cold stare. Of Riven's laughter in the face of steel. Of Kael's insolent smirk.
No, they would never kneel.
Halbrecht slammed his goblet down, spilling wine across the table. "Enough! I will not be mocked in my own hall. Tomorrow at dawn, the strangers die. Their heads will decorate my gate as warning to all who whisper rebellion."
The hall fell silent. Then, one by one, the lords and priests nodded. None dared oppose the pig.
Outside, the bells tolled again. But this time, they sounded more like funeral chimes.
The Dungeon
The dungeon was damp, stinking of mildew and piss. Chains clinked in the dark.
Riven broke the silence first, chuckling to himself. "So let me get this straight. They drag me into a dirt pit, throw a knight at me, and act surprised when I beat his ass into the ground. Then they call me a demon. Am I missing something?"
Kael groaned, rubbing his bruised head. "Don't even get me started. They gave me riddles. Riddles! Like I'm on a medieval fucking game show. 'What has a mouth but never talks?' Jesus Christ. I wanted to punch that priest in the throat."
Riven snorted. "You should've answered: 'Your wife.'"
Kael barked out a laugh, then winced from the pain.
Damian, still sitting silently against the wall, finally spoke. His voice was calm, steady, ice cold. "They wanted submission. That's all. The trial was a theater. To make the villagers feel safe. To prove we could be broken."
"And instead," Riven grinned, "we scared the piss out of half the town."
"Exactly," Damian said. His eyes glimmered in the torchlight. "They'll execute us tomorrow. That much is certain. But already, the cracks are showing. Not everyone believes we're demons. Some think we're gods. And belief is more dangerous than any sword."
Kael looked up. "You're saying…?"
Damian's faint smile was colder than the stone walls around them. "I'm saying Greymoor is already lost. They just don't know it yet."
Dawn of Fire
The next morning, the courtyard was packed to bursting. Villagers, peasants, merchants, and guards—all pressed shoulder to shoulder to witness the execution.
Halbrecht sat fat and triumphant on his chair, goblet in hand, as the executioner raised his axe over the block.
The three CEOs were dragged forward, chains clinking, bruised but unbroken.
"People of Greymoor!" Halbrecht bellowed. "You shall see today that no demon, no false god, no omen from the sky can defy House Greymoor!"
The crowd roared. The axe was raised.
And then—
The first rock flew before the executioner's axe could fall.
It smashed into a knight's helmet with a hollow clang, staggering him. Then came another, and another. Torches arced through the morning air, setting hay and banners ablaze. Within seconds, the execution square transformed into a screaming storm of fists, pitchforks, steel, and fire.
The pro-god faction surged forward like a tidal wave, screaming, "The gods have descended!" Their chants turned into a battle cry. Farmers with scythes hacked at soldiers. Women with kitchen knives stabbed at armored legs. Children hurled stones like miniature siege engines.
The anti-demon zealots answered with equal fury. Priests shrieked holy verses, rallying knights to their side. Fanatics threw themselves at villagers, clawing and biting, convinced they were purging evil with their bare hands.
In the middle of it all, the CEOs still stood on the platform, shackled like sacrifices as the square erupted into civil war around them.
"Finally," Riven grinned, blood already spattering his face as a guard's spear jabbed too close. "The fuckin' party's here."
Kael ducked as an arrow whistled past his head. "This isn't a party! This is a goddamn peasant riot!"
Riven bared his teeth, chains rattling as he yanked against them. "Same thing where I come from."
Damian's voice cut through the chaos like ice. "Focus. This is our opening."
Knights tried to form a shield wall around the execution stage, but the mob smashed into them with raw fury. A farmer rammed a pitchfork clean through a guard's thigh. Another knight was pulled off his feet and beaten to death with cobblestones before his helmet could even hit the ground.
Halbrecht screamed from his throne, face purple. "Kill them! Kill them all! Protect the block!"
His words were drowned by the roar of fire as a villager hurled a torch onto the wooden stage. Flames licked the platform, smoke choking the air.
The executioner dropped his axe and bolted, vanishing into the chaos.