The piercing shrill of the alarm klaxon still echoed in the stone hall as Rhyse moved towards the stairs. On his way up to the battlements, he passed a rack of standard-issue guard equipment. He paused, his gaze falling upon a polished obsidian helm. Count Cairil knew his face, but he did not know the face of "Master Elian." Rhyse secured the helmet, the cool metal settling over his features. His perception narrowed into a tactical slit, and he became one with the commanding presence of a Synkar representative, his individuality eclipsed by the role.
He emerged into the pale, cold light of the northern sky. From the top of the main wall, the view was stark. A sea of men and banners stretched across the moorland, a formidable host of over two hundred mounted warriors. They were not merely on horseback; Rhyse's enhanced senses picked out hulking, scaled beasts from the southern marshes and shaggy, six-legged chargers bred for mountain terrain. At their head, under the banner of the Iron Griffin, was Count Renard Cairil himself, his ornate plate armor a defiant gleam against the grim landscape.
A man beside the Count, his deputy, was shouting at the silent fortress. "In the name of the Synkar and Count Cairil, open these gates! You harbor traitors to the Dukedom!"
Rhyse stepped forward to the edge of the parapet, the golden-eyed Praetorian Golems moving to flank him like ancient sentinels. The shouting below died away as all eyes turned to the lone, helmeted figure on the wall.
"Count Cairil," Rhyse's voice boomed, amplified by the fortress's own arcane acoustics. "You are not the commander here."
The Count's face, even from this distance, contorted in a mask of patrician fury. "Who dares address me? I am Renard Cairil, vassal to the Synkar! Explain this insubordination at once!"
"I am Master Elian, Investigator of House Synkar," Rhyse declared, his voice a blade of ice. "By the authority of the acting Head of House Synkar, this checkpoint has been found to be a nest of corruption and treason. It is now under direct Ducal command. Your man, Captain Arvid, is in custody pending a full accounting of his crimes."
"Insolence!" Cairil roared. "You will release my men and relinquish control of this fortress to me immediately, or I will take it by force and hang every one of you for defying a royal vassal!"
In response, Rhyse simply held up his hand, displaying the lesser Ducal Signet. It pulsed with a soft, golden light, an undeniable mark of legitimacy. "By this signet, I speak with the voice of House Synkar. Any who do not submit to this authority will be deemed traitors to the Dukedom."
As he spoke, the massive Arcane Ballistae and Cannons on the walls pivoted with a heavy groan, their targeting runes locking onto the Count's assembled host. Cairil's eyes widened slightly. He knew the power of Synkar artillery.
Below, the courtyard was a flurry of organized activity. Vance and Linyive were marshaling the combined forces, forming a phalanx of Gentlewell guards and Iron Hounds just behind the main gate, a coiled spring ready to erupt into a counter-charge.
The Count let out a harsh, barking laugh. "You dare aim my Duke's weapons at me, fool? A single bolt fired without permission, and your head will be on a spike before the week is out, signet or no!"
"The blood of Synkar guards has already been spilled here today, Count," Rhyse replied, his voice dangerously calm. "My hands are already stained. Do not force them further. I will give this command again. Surrender your forces and submit to a full investigation of your involvement in this treason."
He then raised his voice, addressing not the Count, but his army. "Soldiers of the North! Your Count has lined his pockets with gold stolen from the people of this Dukedom! He has consorted with traitors and given shelter to thieves! This is not service to the Crown; this is treason against House Synkar! Lay down your arms now! Any man who comes forward to denounce the corruption of his commander will be granted a full pardon by the Duke himself!"
A murmur of unease rippled through Cairil's ranks. A few men, their faces grim, exchanged glances. Then, a small group of riders at the rear of the formation broke away, throwing their swords to the ground and raising their hands.
"ENOUGH!" Cairil bellowed, his face turning purple with rage. He wheeled his monstrous steed, raising his own blade to strike down the dissenters. But before he could move, a golden targeting rune flared to life on the ground before him, and the nearest Arcane Ballistae swiveled with a menacing hum, its aim unwavering. Cairil froze, the threat palpable.
"This is not over!" he snarled. "Full retreat! We fall back and regroup!"
"There will be no retreat," Rhyse's voice echoed from the walls, devoid of all emotion.
The ground behind Cairil's army erupted in a shower of earth and stone as a single, low-powered shot from a cannon slammed into the moor, carving a smoking trench and cutting off their escape. The entire army shuddered to a halt, their mounts rearing in panic.
"You made a mistake coming within range of this fortress, Count," Rhyse called down, the finality in his tone echoing across the sudden, tense silence. "This is my last command. Surrender, or the next volley will be a full-powered strike from the entire arsenal."
"Demented little bastard!" Cairil roared, veins bulging at his temples as spittle flew from his lips. His gauntleted hand trembled where it gripped his sword's hilt, the ancestral steel catching sunlight in jagged reflections across the battlefield. "You'd truly slaughter two hundred armed men over this? The royal courts will peel the flesh from your bones for this!"
Behind his mask, Rhyse allowed the faintest smile beneath Master Elian's scholarly guise. His voice carried with calculated calm, each syllable measured like grain in a merchant's scale. "Consider this, my lord Count. Should the magistrates string me up tomorrow, what comfort would that bring your bleaching bones beneath tomorrow's sunrise?" He gestured toward the still-smoking trench where the warning shot had landed moments before. "Dead men do not rejoice. Dead men do not come back to life. One wrong step today, Count Renard, and that will be you."
The words hung between them like an executioner's blade, underscored by the charging hum of the Arcane Ballistae cycling to full power. Somewhere in the ranks, a squire began retching from terror.
The Count was speechless with rage. But his men were not. Faced with the choice between loyalty to a compromised lord and annihilation by the most advanced artillery on the continent, their decision was simple. The sound of a single sword hitting the dirt was followed by another, and another, until the field before the gate was littered with the abandoned weapons of a surrendered army.
Cairil's deputy leaned in, his voice a frantic whisper. "My lord, we must submit! We can wait for our... allies... to intercede on our behalf."
With a final, strangled roar of fury, Count Renard Cairil threw his own master-crafted sword to the ground.
The gates opened, and Rhyse's forces flooded out, methodically disarming and arresting the Count and his host. Rhyse descended to the courtyard to meet the captured noble. "Renard Cairil," he said, "You stand accused of treason against House Synkar and theft from the people. You will be held in this fortress's deepest cell to await a full accounting for your crimes." He gestured to Vance. "Take him away."
As the sputtering Count was dragged to the dungeons, the Synkar Core chimed, a wave of profound satisfaction washing through Rhyse.
[High-Priority Quest: The Cleansing of the North Gate - COMPLETE.]
[Rewards: Restoration of Northern Checkpoint Integrity, Substantial increase in Regional Loyalty & Tax Revenue, Schematic: Synkar Customs House (Fortified - Rank 1), Title: Scourge of Corruption (Rank 0), Major System Advancement.]
Rhyse's curiosity got the better of him as he pondered the newly acquired title. He focused his mind on the query, and the Synkar Core responded promptly.
[Title: Scourge of Corruption (Rank 0) - Effects:]
[Passive Reputation Effect: Moderate Increase in Regional Loyalty & Respect from Lawful Factions. Negative Sentiment from Corrupt & Criminal Elements.]
[Administrative Bonus: +5% Efficiency in Investigations & Interrogations Conducted by Synkar Appointees (Lady Linyive, Wyon Ashworth, etc.). Potential for Increased Information Yield.]
[Aura Effect (Minor): Presence of Title Holder May Cause Mild Discomfort or Unease in Individuals with Corrupt Intent or Criminal History.]
As the details of the title's effects unfolded in his mind, Rhyse realized that the Scourge of Corruption title was more than just a symbolic reward; it was a tool that could be leveraged to enhance the integrity and efficiency of his administration.
The information also brought a sense of satisfaction, knowing that the actions taken at the North Gate had not only achieved a significant military victory but also contributed to the larger goal of establishing a just and fair rule under House Synkar. The Synkar Core's notification chimed again, this time with a more nuanced insight into the regional dynamics and the potential for further System Advancement through continued efforts in cleansing corruption and improving governance.
[System Notification: Regional Dynamics Update - North Gate Sector: Stability +7.4%, Corruption Index -3.2%. Continued Positive Trend Projected with Sustained Leadership and Administrative Reforms.]
With this new information, Rhyse turned his attention to the journey ahead. He had no time to waste, and already wasted plenty.
"Lady Linyive," he said, turning to the composed noblewoman. With his intent, the System immediately generated a formal Ducal Order, assigning her temporary command. "Until a permanent appointment is made, you are the acting Castellan of the North Gate. See to the prisoners."
Linyive's eyes narrowed slightly as she listened to Rhyse's directive, her expression a blend of surprise and calculation. With a slight inclination of her head, she acknowledged the command, her voice firm as she replied, "As you command, my lord. House Gentlewell will not disappoint you."
Rhyse then shifted his attention to the younger swordsman, placing a firm hand on Wyon's shoulder. The weight of the boy's recent combat experience still showed in the slight tremor of his fingers and the smear of soot across his high cheekbones.
"You've proven your worth today beyond any doubt," Rhyse said, his voice carrying the newly minted authority of his restored Synkar command. "I'm naming you Synkar Overseer for the North Garrison. You'll coordinate repairs, organize patrols, and maintain order here until reinforcements arrive."
He paused, noting how Wyon's dirt-streaked face flushed with a mixture of pride and apprehension beneath his bloodstained gambeson.
"Work closely with Lady Linyive during the transition," Rhyse continued. "Her family's resources combined with your firsthand knowledge of this garrison's needs will be vital." He squeezed the boy's armored shoulder once before releasing him. "Rebuild this place stronger than before."
Wyon straightened immediately, his earlier fatigue forgotten as he snapped into a crisp salute—part military precision, part youthful eagerness.
"My lord!" he barked, his voice cracking slightly before steadying. "House Ashworth has guarded Synkar interests for three generations. I won't be the first to fail in that duty." His chest swelled visibly beneath his battered armor. "By the time you return, you'll hardly recognize these walls—though perhaps we'll keep the scorch marks as a reminder."
The last remark came with a flash of the boy's characteristic bravado, though his knuckles whitened where they still gripped his sword hilt—whether from lingering adrenaline or the overwhelming responsibility now settling on his shoulders, Rhyse couldn't tell.
The Count's interrogation would take far longer than they had time for—interrogators would need to peel back layers of deceit while nobles in the capital would already be whispering about the missing Cairil forces. That tangled web could be unraveled by Wyon and Linyive's combined efforts.
Rhyse turned to the hulking mercenary whose muscled arms still bore traces of dried blood from yesterday's slaughter. "Grak," he said, watching the half-orc's scarred face sharpen with attention, "your contract stands extended. You'll hold this fortress at Lady Linyive's direction until House Gentlewell cavalry and Ashworth regulars reinforce these walls." He tossed the heavy purse of gold—enough to pay triple the standard rate for Grak's entire company—and watched the berserker's yellowed tusks curl into a grin as he snatched it midair.
The mercenary hefted the bulging leather sack, shaking it beside his ear to hear the sovereigns clink. "Aye, little lord," Grak rumbled, slapping his chestplate in a salute that made the buckles rattle. "We'll keep your bricks standing. Might even polish the skulls of Cairil's stragglers if they come sniffing back." His bearded jaw split into a predatory smile as he jerked his chin toward the prisoners being herded into the dungeons. "And if your fancy lords want neat answers from that lot?" He patted the spiked mace at his belt. "We'll make sure they sing pretty songs for your scribes."
And lastly, he tossed Esabel a heavy purse of gold, the weight of it causing her to raise an eyebrow as she caught it with a deft motion. "Find more proof, Whisperwind," Rhyse said, using the alias that commanded a mix of respect and wariness. "I want every tendril of Cairil's conspiracy unearthed, every hidden collaborator exposed." Esabel's gaze flicked to the purse, her eyes narrowing slightly as she weighed its contents, before returning to Rhyse's face. A small, enigmatic smile played on her lips, and she nodded once, the gesture economical and precise. "I'll dig up what I can, my lord. But information doesn't come cheap, and Cairil's roots run deep. I'll need more than gold to get to the heart of it." Her voice was low and smooth, like fine silk, and carried a hint of a challenge, a test of Rhyse's resolve and resources.
"My lord," Wyon protested, "My place is with you!"
"Your place is here, Wyon," Linyive interjected, her voice sharp but not unkind. "You'd only slow him down. We have work to do."
After a few more terse arrangements, Rhyse, Vance, Flint, and Bellweather were once again mounted on their hardy moorland ponies, slipping out of a side gate before the sun had even reached its zenith. They left behind a secured fortress, a captured Count, and the beginnings of a restored order.
As they rode north into the desolate wilds, the silence was broken by Vance's low rumble.
"Lord Rhyse," he asked quietly. "Would you have fired? If he hadn't surrendered."
Rhyse looked ahead, his gaze fixed on the path leading toward the perilous Krellian Deeps.
"Yes," he said, without a moment's hesitation. "I would have."