An eerie calm gripped the courtyard, a suspended moment before chaos erupted. Captain Arvid stared, his face a bloodless mask of horror, at the three golden-eyed titans that had once been his ultimate defense. They now stood as his executioners, awaiting their master's decree.
Rhyse's fingers, which had trembled with the weight of his decision moments before, were now perfectly steady. The chaotic arcane streams of the Tactical Interface had resolved into a single, crystalline line of thought. He was in control.
"Take them down," Rhyse commanded, his voice quiet yet carrying across the entire courtyard. It was not a shout, but a sentence delivered.
The Synkar Praetorian Golems moved. The combat that followed was not the wild clash of battle, but the rhythmic, brutal efficiency of a forge hammer shaping raw iron. One Golem's war-hammer crushed a charging guardsman into the cobblestones. One of the golems grabbed a guardsman, wrenching him asunder with a gruesome rending of armor and flesh, the sound of tearing metal and snapping bone echoing through the courtyard. It was a terrifying, one-sided slaughter that shattered the last vestiges of the traitors' morale.
"The defenses! He controls the fortress! How can that be?" a man shrieked from the battlements.
Rhyse lifted his right hand. As if in answer, the massive Arcane Ballistae pivoted with a groan of protesting metal, their targeting runes glowing with golden light as they aimed not outward, but inward—directly at the clusters of Arvid's loyalists.
That was the final blow. The sight of their own siege weapons turned against them broke whatever spirit remained. One by one, then in entire groups, the checkpoint guards dropped their swords with a clatter, falling to their knees with their hands raised.
"Hold your ground, you cowards!" Arvid screamed, his voice thin with panic. "Count Cairil will—"
He was cut off as Rhyse, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, made a simple gesture towards the main gate. With a deafening groan, the massive iron-bound doors began to swing open.
Sunlight flooded the courtyard, silhouetting the nearly hundred-strong force of mercenaries and Gentlewell guards waiting outside. The sight of overwhelming, organized reinforcements pouring into the yard was the final, undeniable proof that the battle was over. The last few guards standing threw down their weapons.
"Take Captain Arvid alive," Rhyse's voice echoed, cold and clear. "I want to know who else was pulling his strings."
Arvid's defiance began to crumble as his gaze fell upon the imposing Golems, their cold, rune-inscribed bodies fixed intently on him. The targeting runes etched into their limbs pulsed with a faint, ominous glow, illuminating the dark recesses of the courtyard.
The air was heavy with the weight of their unblinking attention, and Arvid's resolve faltered beneath their unyielding stare. His legs trembled, weakened by the crushing realization that resistance was futile. Vance, seizing the opportunity, strode forward with a purposeful gait. With a swift and efficient motion, he apprehended Arvid, his hands closing around the captain's wrists like a vice. The sound of clinking chains echoed through the courtyard as Vance secured Arvid's bindings, rendering him immobile.
In the aftermath, Rhyse's team regarded him with a blend of awe and trepidation. Vance gave a slight nod, his expression a blend of admiration and quiet acknowledgment, as he tightened Arvid's restraints, his gaze locked steadily on Rhyse. The veteran guard saw a commander emerge, one who could wield authority with a quiet confidence that commanded attention. Grak, still breathing heavily from his skill, stared at Rhyse with a gaze that bordered on reverence, his massive frame seeming to shrink slightly as he absorbed the weight of Rhyse's power. Grak's customary bluster was moderated by a growing understanding that Rhyse's authority was not to be underestimated, a potency that surpassed the raw ferocity of a berserker's fury.
As the rest of the team - Linyive, Wyon, and the others - took in the scene, their faces reflected a mix of fascination and wariness, their minds struggling to comprehend the magnitude of Rhyse's transformation. Linyive's eyes narrowed slightly as she watched Rhyse, her mind already racing, while Wyon's gaze shone with a deepening admiration. Bellweather stood frozen, his usually jovial features slack with stunned disbelief as he clutched his hand tighter against his chest.
Flint, ever the silent sentinel at Bellweather's side, didn't react with open shock—such displays were foreign to her nature—but her fingers twitched instinctively toward the dagger at her belt. Here was a boy who shouldn't have been able to stand against a trained knight—yet had the power to take control of a entire fortress mysteriously.
Their minds wrestled with the same question: how could a boy, barely past childhood, have such power? It was difficult for them to reconcile the image of the young heir they'd seen before with the decisive leader now directing their movements and controlling an entire fortress to his whim.
They struggled to grasp that the power wasn't some external enchantment, a borrowed prestige, or a cunning illusion. It was nearly impossible that power was Rhyse's own— they couldn't in a million years imagine that something awakened within him, fueled by wealth converted into capability through the enigmatic Synkar Core System.
Even Grak, a veteran of countless skirmishes and accustomed to the brutal realities of power, found himself momentarily disoriented. The raw strength he understood, the brutal efficiency of a well-placed blow—those were things he could quantify. But this… this was something else entirely. It wasn't a force he could meet with force, but a current that threatened to sweep anything away.
"The signet," Linyive murmured to Wyon, her analytical gaze fixed on the simple ring on Rhyse's finger. "The Synkar Signet of Authority… it must be far more powerful than the histories say." Wyon just nodded, his eyes shining with a fanatical light. This was not just a Lord he had chosen to follow; this was a force of nature.
With the checkpoint secured, Rhyse's team moved swiftly led by Esabel and Linyive. They seized financial ledgers, personal correspondence, and coded message crystals from Arvid's office. The proof was damning and plentiful, showing a clear trail of laundered gold and cryptic orders leading directly to Count Renard Cairil, with unsettling mentions of "other interested parties" and "our mutual friends in the capital."
Rhyse issued his first edicts as commander of the North Gate. "The checkpoint is closed to all traffic until further notice," he declared. "Linyive, Esabel, take these records. Identify every merchant, every caravan, every traveler who was extorted by these thieves. We will make restitution." He gestured to the warehouses overflowing with confiscated goods. "Use what's here. What we don't have, the Synkar vaults will provide."
He then addressed the guards that surrendered early, who were now huddled under the watch of his own forces. "You took an oath to House Synkar," he said, his voice ringing with the authority of the fortress itself. "You shamed it. But that shame belongs to your treasonous captain, not all of you." He made a clear distinction, separating those who had surrendered early from those who fought to the bitter end. "Those of you not directly involved in this corruption will have a chance to redeem yourselves in service to your House. The rest of you will face a swift and impartial justice."
He tasked Flint and Bellweather with overseeing the prisoners, their faces impassive as they escorted the most culpable men to the fortress's own dungeons.
Finally, Rhyse confronted the bound Captain Arvid. The man, even in defeat, was smug.
"You've won this little battle, boy," Arvid spat, a sneer on his lips. "But you've just declared war on Count Cairil. He will crush you. This fortress will be your tomb."
Rhyse simply looked at him with cold, dispassionate eyes. "Vance," he said, turning away. "Take him to the lower levels. I want to know everything. The Count, his allies, the 'mutual friends.' Be persuasive. We don't have time, so don't waste any."
Vance's scarred lips curled into a grim smile. "With pleasure, my lord."
But as he took a step towards the prisoner, a shrill, piercing klaxon echoed from the main watchtower. The fortress alarms.
A runner burst into the hall, his face pale. "My lord! Banners on the horizon! Hundreds of them! They bear the crest of the Iron Griffin—it's Count Cairil's main host!"
Rhyse felt a chill, but no fear. He had won the fortress, but the war had just arrived at his door. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the battlements he now commanded.
"He's early," Rhyse said, a strange, dangerous calm settling over him. He started for the stairs leading to the top of the wall. "Let's not keep the Count waiting."