Aldric's Memory
He remembered his first battle, when he was little more than a boy. The clash of steel, the stink of blood. His commander then had been a hard but fair man, who told him, "A knight is the sword of his people."
That commander had been executed years later — by Halbrecht, for refusing to slaughter an unarmed village. Aldric had carried that weight ever since.
Now, with the three Gods rising, he could almost see his old commander again. The man would have smiled to see him kneel before strangers from the sky rather than a pig on a throne.
Maybe this was redemption.
Maybe this was the last chance to give his sword to someone worthy.
Oath in the Shadows
Aldric knelt before the crumbled altar, pressing his blade flat against the stone. His voice was low, hoarse with anger, but steady:
"I, Sir Aldric of Greymoor, swear by steel and by blood: my sword no longer serves Halbrecht. It serves the Familia. It serves the gods who rose from fire. I will open their gates. I will tear down the pig's walls. And if I fall, let my death be the nail in Halbrecht's coffin."
The words echoed in the empty chapel like a prayer.
When he rose, his face was set. His anger was no longer wild. It was sharpened. A blade honed for one purpose.
For the first time in years, Sir Aldric was not afraid.
Because he no longer fought for survival.
He fought for vengeance.
And for something that almost felt like honor.
The Pig's Court
Sir Aldric slipped through the postern gate of Greymoor Castle with the ease of long habit. The guards barely glanced at him — to them, he was still a knight, still loyal, still Halbrecht's man. None guessed that the parchment hidden beneath his breastplate contained the Gods's battle plan.
The air inside the castle stank of smoke and fear. Torches burned day and night, as if Halbrecht believed light alone could drive away rebellion.
Aldric moved through the familiar corridors, listening, watching. Every stone seemed colder than before.
The Banquet of Ashes
He found Halbrecht in the great hall, seated at the high table. The pig lord stuffed himself with roasted goose, his greasy fingers glistening as he tore into the carcass. Around him, servants shuffled nervously: a dwarf pouring wine, an elf polishing silver, a beastfolk girl carrying platters of bread.
Halbrecht's voice thundered between bites. "Faster, you sniveling wretches! Do you think I sit here to starve? I am Lord of Greymoor, not a beggar at your table!"
When the beastfolk girl stumbled, the platter shaking, Halbrecht's meaty fist shot out and backhanded her across the jaw. She crumpled to the floor, bread scattering across the rushes.
Laughter rippled from a few knights at the table, eager to echo their lord. The girl whimpered, clutching her face, blood staining her fur.
"Filthy mongrel," Halbrecht spat. "You're lucky I don't have your hide nailed to the gate. Get up! Get up, or I'll have you flogged!"
The dwarf servant bent to help her, only to catch a goblet hurled into his forehead. Wine streamed down his beard like blood.
Halbrecht roared with laughter, tearing another strip of meat. "Oh, how noble the races of the world think themselves. Elves with their airs, dwarves with their hammers, beastfolk with their tails. Bah! You are tools, nothing more. Cattle with clever tongues. And you will serve me until your bones break!"
The hall echoed with uneasy chuckles from the nobles. Some laughed because they believed. Most laughed because they feared.
Aldric's hands clenched around the hilt of his sword. Every instinct screamed to cut the swine down where he sat. But he forced himself to breathe, to wait. To remember Damian's command: The pig dies by our hands.
Halbrecht continued, wine spilling down his double chin. "When the rebels are crushed, I'll send their leaders' heads to the other lords. And their people? Hah! I'll sell the elf whores to the brothels, the dwarves to the mines, the mongrels to the kennels. Let the world see what happens when they defy me."
The beastfolk girl trembled as she crawled back to her feet. Her eyes caught Aldric's for the briefest instant — wide, pleading, hopeless.
And in that moment, Aldric's oath hardened into iron.
The Gods wasn't just vengeance. It wasn't just rebellion.
It was salvation.
When the banquet finally ended, Aldric slipped back into the shadows of the courtyard, rage burning in his chest.
The rebellion could not fail. The gates would open.
Because as long as Halbrecht sat on the throne, Greymoor was not a city.
It was a slaughterhouse.
The Pig's Council
The great hall had emptied of servants. Only Halbrecht, his priests, and his closest nobles remained. The fires in the hearth burned low, casting the chamber in restless shadows.
Halbrecht sprawled in his chair like a bloated beast, goblet in hand, wine dribbling down his chin. His voice, however, was not drunken. It was sharp, vicious, and edged with fear.
"They multiply," he growled. "Every night, more peasants vanish into the alleys. Every day, whispers of gods spread through my streets. And still you sit here, fattened on my coin, doing nothing."
The nobles shifted uncomfortably.
One spoke — Lord Brennic, master of a nearby village. "My lord, the people are hungry. The granaries—"
Halbrecht's goblet flew across the table, striking Brennic squarely in the face. The noble reeled, blood pouring from his nose.
"Do you think I need reminding of the granaries, you worm?" Halbrecht thundered. "I need answers. I need solutions. If the people starve, then they should fear me more than hunger!"
A priest stepped forward, robes trailing, voice oozing with false calm. "My lord, this is heresy. These rebels have cloaked themselves in false divinity. The peasants are weak of mind, eager to worship anyone who feeds them hope. We must cleanse the city with faith. Public executions. More sermons."
"Faith?" Halbrecht barked a laugh. "Faith doesn't fill bellies. Faith doesn't hold walls. Steel does. Fire does. Fear does."
Lady Maelwyn, a sharp-eyed noblewoman, folded her hands. "Then perhaps, my lord, it is time to call for aid. Neighboring lords could send men, gold, grain—"
Halbrecht's head snapped toward her, eyes wild. "Aid? You would invite vultures into my hall? Let them march their banners through my gates, so they can measure the throne they'll inherit when I'm gone?" He slammed a fist on the table. "No! Greymoor stands alone. I stand alone!"
Silence choked the chamber. No one dared move.
Finally, Halbrecht leaned forward, his voice dropping into a low, venomous growl. "We do not call for help. We do not beg. We purge. Tonight, my knights scour the slums again. Every hovel, every alley. We drag out anyone who whispers the word 'god' and we burn them alive in the squares."
The priest smiled thinly. "A holy cleansing."
Lady Maelwyn lowered her gaze, but behind her mask of obedience, her mind already raced. Halbrecht's madness was becoming dangerous. If he destroyed the city while trying to save it, what would be left for his nobles to rule?
And though none spoke it aloud, the thought hung heavy in the smoky air: If Halbrecht falls, who rises in his place?
A Whisper in the Shadows
The council had ended in silence. Halbrecht lumbered back to his chambers, dragging two trembling servants behind him, while the priests muttered prayers over the dying fire. One by one, the nobles filed out, their footsteps echoing through the stone corridors.
Lady Maelwyn did not return to her quarters.
Instead, she drifted into a side gallery, her gown whispering over the cold floor. Behind her, Lord Brennic — his nose still bleeding from Halbrecht's thrown goblet — limped after her, eyes darting like a nervous rat.
"Lady Maelwyn," he hissed, clutching his bruised face. "You'll get us both killed, speaking of aid before that… that beast."
Maelwyn turned, her sharp eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Better killed than left to starve in his ruin. Do you not see it, Brennic? Greymoor bleeds. The people turn from him. Even his knights waver. The city is already half lost."
Brennic swallowed hard. "You mean… the rebels."
A thin smile curled Maelwyn's lips. "Not rebels. Gods, if the peasants are to be believed."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a venomous whisper. "And gods are easier to serve than pigs."
Brennic gaped at her, horrified. "You would betray your lord?"
Maelwyn's laugh was soft, cold. "My loyalty is to survival. To power. Halbrecht is finished. He cannot see it, but I can. The Familia grows with every day. And when the gates fall…" She touched Brennic's arm with a clawlike grip. "Those who bow quickly may yet keep their heads."
Brennic's lips trembled. "But if Halbrecht learns—"
"He won't." Her eyes flashed. "Because you will keep your mouth shut. And when the Familia takes this castle, we will kneel, not fight. And perhaps we will be rewarded."
Brennic hesitated, torn between fear and the instinct to cling to the strongest side. But Maelwyn's gaze was unyielding.
Finally, he bowed his head. "…As you say, my lady."
Maelwyn released him, turning back to the gallery window. Outside, the city smoldered with fires from Halbrecht's purges. She watched the glow, her smile sharpening.
"The age of pigs ends soon," she murmured. "Best to greet the new gods with open hands."