William rose from the rubble of the broken scaffold, sword heavy in his hand. Smoke and ash swirled in the square, where bodies lay like fallen trees. Above him, storm clouds gathered, as if the sky, too, mourned Catherine's death. The horn had sounded once more—deep, urgent, a call for reinforcements from Westham's armies. William's chest hurt with grief and rage.
He looked down at the fallen rider's lifeless face. The man had come to offer a choice—revenge or surrender. Now he lay still, eyes closed, and William held his sword like a promise of blood. A wind swept through the square, rattling torches and stirring dust. William gripped the hilt tighter. Promise meant nothing without action.
He sheathed the rider's blade and turned away from the bodies. Rebel fighters fell silent around him, unsure what to do next. William did not hesitate. He raced toward the eastern gate of the city, where Westham guards had taken position to secure the square. His boots pounded on broken planks and spilled coals. Shouts rose as the guards spotted him: a lone figure in black, moving like a shadow.
"Stop him!" one guard yelled, raising a spear. Fear flared in his eyes as William reached the gate.
William did not speak. He swung his blade in a wide arc, cutting through the guard's spear shaft. Wood splintered. The guard staggered back, face pale. William's stride carried him forward, sword rising. He slashed again. The guard dropped to his knees, chest heaving, before toppling to the stones.Blood spattered in dark arcs.
A second guard lunged. William spun, meets the thrust with a crushing block. Steel rang as swords clashed. William shoved backward, forcing the guard off balance. The guard stumbled, and William's blade found its mark under the arm, slicing deep. The guard fell, breath gurgling—helpless.
Chaos erupted beyond the gate. More guards poured in, shields raised and swords drawn. But William did not wait. He stepped into the courtyard before them, jaw set, eyes on fire. "For Catherine," he muttered.
Guards formed a line, shields braced. Their faces were hard, trained not to flinch. William charged, a whirlwind of black cloak and steel. He struck the first guard's shield, sending him reeling. Arrows of sparks flew as his blade scraped metal. He pivoted and cut across the second guard's throat. Black blood bloomed on the stones.
Shouts rang out as more guards joined. William moved like a blaze, relentless. He stabbed through armor, blocked thrusts, twisted and spun. Each blow rang with the pain in his chest. Each death was a spark fueling his fury.
A guard with a broad shield charged him. William sidestepped and drove his sword through the shield's gap, nicking the man's rib. The guard staggered, dropped his sword, and sank to the ground. William took the man's sword and used it to fend off two more attackers. One guard's helm cracked under a heavy blow; he fell, hand pressed to his skull. Another guard's thigh gave way when William's blade sliced the leather; he screamed and crumpled.
By the time the sun was low in the sky, the courtyard was littered with bodies. William stood among them, chest heaving, sword dripping crimson. His cloak was torn. His boots muddied. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and fear. Across the courtyard gates, a handful of guards had fallen back, faces drawn. They huddled behind broken shields, weapons shaking in their hands.
Then, from behind William, a cry rose. He turned as a young boy—no more than sixteen—clutching a broken pike, raced into the courtyard. The boy's eyes widened as he saw the carnage. He started to run away, but a guard broke from cover and shouted, "Stop him!" Before the guard could swing his sword, the boy dropped the pike and raised empty hands. William held up a finger. "Wait." The guard hesitated.
William walked over to the boy, sword still in hand. The boy trembled. William knelt, flipping the sword's tip onto the ground. He looked the boy in the eyes. "Who are you?" he asked, voice low.
The boy swallowed hard. "I… I'm Tomas. I live here. My family—" he flinched, words caught in his throat. "The guards took them away this morning."
William's chest tightened. He had killed enough to fill ten fields. But this boy's fear and loss reached a deeper place in his heart. He slid off his cloak, wrapped it around Tomas's shoulders. "Understood. You're safe now." He rose, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Stay here. You don't belong in this fight."
Tomas nodded, tears tracking down his cheeks. The last guard raised his sword, uncertain, but William locked eyes with him. "I don't want more death." The guard's eyes flicked from William's sword to Tomas. Then, slowly, he lowered his blade, voice shaking: "Fine."
William turned and strode back through the fallen bodies toward the village gates. Tomas followed, small footsteps echoing. Beyond the gates lay the village of Sterling—a place where Westham's reach still held dominion. The village rose on a gentle slope, wooden houses huddled tight, each roof charred from recent raids. Smoke curled from a few that burned, plumes dark against the fading light.
William and Tomas slipped through a shattered gate and moved toward the center. Carts lay abandoned, carts still loaded with grain. Gates hung off hinges. Guards—few—stood in pairs, looking lost, breathless from retreat and surprise. William's eyes met theirs—no mercy would be given today.
From the shadows of a half-collapsed tavern, William heard a cry. He paused, glancing at Tomas. "Stay close," he said.
He entered the tavern, sword raised. Tables and chairs lay broken. A man—thin, worn, collar stained with blood—cowered behind a half-open door. William struck the door aside, revealing the man's face—recognition flickered. This man was a scout William had spoken with months ago, when he'd first come to Sterling to plan flaws in Westham's supply lines.
The man's eyes widened, breathing uneven. "William? Is it really you?" he whispered. "You… you were dead."
William's throat tightened. "I'm alive. And I need your help." He glanced over the man's shoulder.
A guard barreled into the room, sword raised. The scout pushed William aside. William swatted him away, sword slicing through the air. The guard's helm cracked. He fell, unmoving. William knelt beside the scout, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "Find a way out of the village. Warn your families. Go!"
The scout hesitated, terror and relief flickering in his eyes. His mouth opened, but no words came.
William rose, keeping his sword ready. "Now."
The scout spun and bolted through a smashed window. William leaped through after him, landing in the dusty street. He watched the scout disappear between wrecked wagons.
He hadn't seen so many dead in one place since Catherine's execution. Sterling's main street lay strewn with bodies—guards, some women who'd fought back, and one or two villagers caught in the crossfire. William's boots splashed through shallow puddles of blood.
To his right, children huddled behind a half-door, watching him with wide eyes. A young girl—eight or nine—held a ragged doll. William caught her glance. He sheathed his sword and knelt. Her hair was matted, eyes red from crying.
"Are you hurt?" he asked softly.
She shook her head.
He pulled her up gently. "Go home. Tell your parents I said you're safe."
She looked at him uncertainly, then slipped away, running.
William exhaled, chest tight. He remembered Catherine's face when he promised to keep them safe. He wondered if he had broken more promises than he could bear.
From the end of the street came the echo of hoofbeats—rapid, steady. Westham's cavalry. Their banners unfurled behind them, dark red with the black crown. William glanced at the horizon. The riders approached under scudding clouds, the last of the sun burning crimson at their heels.
He spun, grabbing Tomas's hand. "We have to move."
Tomas, fear in his eyes, nodded and followed. They ducked into an alley between two houses, the stench of rot and hearth smoke clinging to the air. William's mind raced: no time to go back to the forest. He needed a new plan.
Up ahead, a small lane led toward the river—a narrow crossing that no cavalry could easily use. If they could reach it before the riders split off, they might slip away.
He half-dragged Tomas, moving as quietly as he could through the shadows. Glimpses of movement flicked at the alley's exit—clatter of boots, soft shouts in a foreign tongue. Westham foot soldiers, chasing rebels. They passed too close. Tomas stiffened, white with fear.
William pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering. A soldier's boot thundered by, torso brushing against William's cloak. The man muttered, "Check that alley," before crashing forward. William exhaled, willing his breath to slow.
He peeked around the corner. Half a dozen soldiers marched through, weapons ready. William counted them silently. Too many to confront. He lowered Tomas's hand and crept backward.
They slipped to the river lane. A half-dismantled wooden bridge stood over a shallow stream. Crossing quickly, William saw no guards on the far side. He guided Tomas onto the first plank.
A sudden shout echoed behind them: "There! By the alley!"
William dashed across the bridge, Tomas close at his side. Planks groaned and cracked under their combined weight. William stumbled at the halfway point. A plank snapped, sending him to one knee. Tomas flailed for balance but caught himself on William's shoulder.
William caught his breath, then rose, pulling Tomas forward. Just as they reached the far bank, a soldier's spear clanged into the shattered plank, nearly striking William's foot. He jumped backward, clutching Tomas.
On the village side, soldiers flooded onto the broken bridge, swords raised. William drew his sword and held Thomas behind him, shielding the boy's body with his own. He glanced at the approaching tide of enemies and made a bold choice.
He turned and plunged the sword deep into the mud beside his boot, jarring the blade into the earth. Sparks of anger and sorrow flared within him. Without hesitation, he wrested the blade free, lunging at the first soldier to cross the broken plank.
Steel rang as William fought, the blade singing through the cold air. Each strike threw whirlwind arcs of fury. One guard fell with a wounded cry; another dodged backward, only to meet William's next blow. William did not pause. He moved like a storm, each step a declaration of wrath.
Tomas watched, horror and awe mingling in his wide eyes. William's face was a mask of steel and sorrow, eyes unmoving, heart frozen in grief.
When the last guard fell, William stood among bodies, breath ragged, eyes glazed. Blood coated his sword, dripping onto the wood and earth. He sheathed the blade, biting back a sob. He knelt, scooping Tomas to his chest.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice rough.
Tomas shook, tears falling silently.
William rocked the boy gently. "It's over… for now." He looked back across the broken bridge. Westham's soldiers would soon be here, reinforcements pouring in from the banners he'd seen on the horizon. There was no time to linger.
He stood, brushing mud and blood from his boots. He guided Tomas into the dark woods beyond the clearing. Branches reached out like skeletal hands. The path grew uneven, but he did not slow. He followed a narrow game trail that would lead them to a hidden pass known only to the rebels.
Behind him, horns blared once more—an echo of steel and chaos. William's heart tightened. Ahead, night swallowed the trail, and every tree cast long, twisted shadows.
Tomas spoke, voice small. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe," William replied, but his voice trembled. He did not truly know where. Only that the rebellion had begun, and with it, a fire that would consume every piece of his life until all of Westham's guards were ashes in the wind.
They reached a ridge overlooking a small valley. A single lantern glowed in the distance— a rebel outpost. William's lips curved slightly. Safety, at last. Or so he hoped.
He guided Tomas down the slope.
But behind them, in the darkness, a figure watched.
A muffled whistle cut through the night—a signal. The watcher lifted a hood, revealing a face that William recognized with a jolt of ice.
A face he thought was gone.
Behind William and Tomas, in the shadowed trees, the betrayer who sent the call to Westham stands silent, knife gleaming in the moonlight. His eyes burn with a secret that will shatter everything William believes.