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.