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.