Tales from Interia: LIBERATORES

The day began as it always did: with a hollow whisper of organ chords echoing down the palace corridors, drifting past velvet curtains and marble pillars. The hush of early dawn clung to every tapestry, as though the entire royal household was suspended in solemn prayer. At the far end of the main corridor, beyond tall doors gilded in gold, lay the private bedchamber of the Crown Princess—though no one ever dared call them anything but princess .

The occupant of the gilded bed sat awake, blinking drowsy eyes at a polished mirror that reflected an image he detested. His hair, painstakingly arranged into delicate curls the night before, glinted in the faint morning light. His eyes, lined by the royal attendants with subtle kohl, looked far too gentle. The silken nightgown he wore seemed to mock him, all softness and pastel lace. He resented every thread of it.

He hated the suffocating routine. The stiff courtesy bows he was expected to offer. The demure manner in which he was supposed to speak and giggle among the courtiers. The constant scrutiny—“Walk gracefully, Princess,” they would say. “Bow your head modestly.” He wanted to snarl at them, to tear away the illusions of meekness. He was no delicate court blossom. He was not their princess, no matter how many times the courtiers addressed him by that title.

The day’s regimen arrived like clockwork: a gentle rap on the door— the attendants were here to prepare him. Unbidden, they shuffled inside, heads bowed in reverential posture. They began to fuss over him. Their fingers glided over silk garments, their voices pitched in low, respectful tones. In those murmurs, he sensed a thousand judgments and expectations. Every word and gesture reminded him that in the palace’s eyes, he was merely a pretty bauble to be displayed.

He remembered how, as a young child, he once tried to insist he was a boy. He had stolen the wooden swords from the training yard, brandishing them in secret, imagining himself as a knight or a prince leading armies. But the King—his father—had found him, snatched the weapon from his hands with a sneer of disdain. “You are my daughter ,” the King had said coldly, “and you will act accordingly.” Punishment followed, the memory of it still vivid like a bruise.

Over the years, each day hammered him further into the role. The priests in the chapel would proclaim, “For her, we pray. Our beloved princess, so graceful in her devotion.” The palace staff would kneel in the hall, chanting praises to her compliance. The kingdom’s subjects adored the sweet-faced “Crown Princess,” the living embodiment of purity and virtue. To him, each adoration felt like a shackle.

He had grown taller than they ever anticipated. His shoulders broadened in ways the lavish gowns could hardly disguise. His soul seethed with the same unstoppable growth—anger, frustration, bitterness. In quiet moments, he studied his reflection, trying to see the man he was inside, struggling against the powdered face and pinned-up hair. Every day, something in him cracked further, letting in a cold, seething rage.

And then came the music.

In the palace, the day’s spiritual rites began with a solemn chant that seemed to hang in the corridors like the lingering echo of a prayer. Officially, it was just the morning liturgy—a ritual performed by the priests, accompanied by the rumbling bass of drums and the hiss of wind instruments. Yet he heard it differently. As though from some private realm, his own voice sang the lines in his head, words no one else reacted to:

“I am so much bigger / Than you ever could have feared.”

He had first caught these whispered lyrics in the far corner of the cathedral aisle weeks ago, repeated in hushed reverence by the kingdom’s spiritual choir. But even then, it felt personal, as if the song belonged to him alone. Now, it reverberated in his mind like an eerie clarion call. Yes , he thought grimly, I am more than you ever allowed me to be. You turned me into something monstrous in the shadows of your expectations.

He rose, letting the attendants lace him into yet another gown. The tension in his chest tightened. He allowed them to comb his hair into a regal updo, all while his mind wandered through fantasies of defiance. If he truly gave in to that inner storm, would they still see a meek princess? Could they even begin to fathom the fury that burned within him?

Soon, the morning ritual ended. He was escorted to the royal chapel. Incense clung to the stone walls. Flickering candles illuminated grand murals depicting heroic kings and pious queens. But he was not moved by any sense of devotion. Instead, he recalled more lines from that mysterious, privately heard melody, creeping again through his thoughts:

“I’m far more dangerous and terrible / I am the nightmare you created in your head.”

The King and Queen, the priests, the courtiers, his siblings—they had all played a role in forging his resentment. By forcing him into a gilded role that negated his true self, they had created a creature poised to strike back at the very foundation of this oppressive structure.

He bowed mechanically before the altar, going through the motions while the official choir in the chapel continued its ordinary chanting. The King sat on his jeweled pew, chin held high, his imposing presence dominating the room. The Queen offered polite nods to the priests. Not once did her gaze settle on her child with any warmth. This was duty for her, not love.

The day’s sermon ended, concluding with murmurs of a prayer. But in the prince’s mind, the refrain emerged clearly, as if only he could hear the words:

“And still you love me… / Your greatest weakness… / It’s not my fault you love me.”

They don’t love me, he thought. They love their idea of me.

When the chapel service finished, the day resumed. He was guided back through the halls by two ladies-in-waiting. They chattered about the upcoming festivities, about how the princess would look so lovely in a new gown, how the kingdom relied on her virtuous image to maintain alliances. He offered curt nods, barely containing the sharp retort on his tongue.

At midday, he was seated in the royal gardens, expected to embroider or read poetry, as though these were the greatest ambitions he could hold. The sky overhead was a bright, merciless blue. Birds flitted among the rose bushes. He stared at his pale, needle-pricked hands and saw the calluses that had begun to form from clandestine swordplay. They were faint, nearly hidden under layers of forced delicacy, but they were there. A secret truth.

One day, he vowed, he would stop hiding.

Across the courtyard, a cluster of guards performed a ceremonial drill. The bright clang of steel against steel made his pulse race with hunger. He recalled stolen moments in the armoury, the exhilarating heft of a blade in his hands. Before anyone could notice his longing stare, he dipped his head back into the embroidered handkerchief, hiding his expression of yearning behind a veil of compliance.

An attendant approached to fetch him for lunch with the royal family. He rose, his steps slow and measured, because to do otherwise invited scrutiny. The corridor leading to the dining hall was adorned with frescoes of past monarchs—stern kings and proud queens presiding over a devout land. He felt his lips tighten in disdain. He wanted to be none of them. He wanted to be a prince.

At the dining table, the King scarcely looked at him, except to give a dismissive sneer when he spoke too directly or let his voice drop into a lower register. The Queen nattered on about court alliances, the priesthood that guided the moral code of the realm, the necessity of the princess’s public image. Rage flared in him, but he kept silent. Not a single word of this was about his happiness. It was all about how well he performed as a piece in their grand design.

His knuckles turned white around the silverware. The silent voice in his mind returned, lyrics swirling like a mocking taunt:

“And still you love me / Your greatest weakness / It’s not my fault you love me.”

They placed him upon a pedestal of false worship, an icon of purity to be prayed to in the grand cathedral of their monarchy. But in truth, the King and Queen’s brand of love was control. The palace’s brand of affection was nothing more than pageantry.

He excused himself from the meal. A flurry of courtiers stood to bow, but he walked past them with clipped steps. Lifting his chin, he walked outside, ignoring the gentle protests of the attendants who said something about it being improper for the princess to roam unescorted. But he needed to be alone—just for a moment.

He found refuge in one of the lesser-used palace hallways, where tall windows looked out onto the wide moat and forest beyond. His reflection in the glass was ephemeral, superimposed over a vista of green and sky. He pressed his palm against the cool surface, listening to his heart pound. Something was shifting in him, like a dam about to burst.

He might have stood there for hours if not for the approach of a single guard who stiffened at the sight of the princess. The guard respectfully lowered his spear and apologized for the intrusion. A swirl of revulsion twisted in the prince’s stomach. Another person staring at me like I’m precious glass.

He decided to wait no longer. Something must break.

When the official lessons in decorum resumed that afternoon, he found himself in a tutoring chamber with a refined old bishop. The bishop wore robes embroidered with gold thread that caught the lamplight. As was the day’s custom, the bishop led him through scripture, praising the Almighty for the benevolent princess. All the while, a pang grew in his chest. The bishop spoke of devotion, humility, and gratitude. The prince felt his fingernails bite into his palm as he recalled more lines that surfaced, unprompted, from the song only he seemed to hear:

“Is this a savior’s complex? / That you have come to create / Is that why you’ve tied me to this day?”

Yes, the entire monarchy had a savior’s complex, forging a holy narrative about a princess who would guide the realm in virtue. But all they were doing was chaining him to a lie. A lie repeated so often that no one noticed the ragged edges it left in his soul.

At last, the bishop paused. “You seem distracted, Princess,” the bishop observed gently. “Is something troubling you?”

He forced a small, polite smile. “No, Your Grace,” he lied.

The bishop droned on, but the prince no longer heard the words. Instead, memories flashed: the King’s scornful face, the endless dresses, the forced courtesy. The humiliations coiled into a single, inescapable truth. I will not endure this any longer.

Dismissed from lessons, he walked briskly to his private chamber, ignoring the calls of servants. He closed the door and let out a trembling breath. His gaze fell upon an old trunk in the corner. Underneath layers of lace and ribbons lay something he had hidden: a short sword, stolen from the training yard.

He retrieved it, the weight familiar in his hand. He had practiced with it when no one was looking, hacking at imaginary foes in the dead of night. The blade had felt like an extension of his body, more natural than any piece of jewelry he had ever been forced to wear. Now, he touched its hilt, and the spark of anger within him flared.

“You think you’re stronger / Bow and arrow / Draw your sword now / It can’t save you now.”

Those words played in his mind as though mocking the monarchy that had forced him to be their little princess. The time had come for him to show them exactly how he felt.

Outside, the chanting of evening devotions drifted through the corridor in muffled form, beautiful and solemn to all who heard it. But the prince’s version of the song was deafening in his own head, each note fueling his sense of righteous fury.

He opened the door of his chamber and stepped into the hallway. The first person to see him—a startled servant girl—gasped at the sight of the gleaming blade. She cried out, “Princess, no—!” But he walked on, resolute. Guards rushed forward, confusion twisting their faces at the spectacle. Why is the princess armed?

A whisper of shock rippled through the staff. The corridor seemed to stretch, each step echoing. At the far end, the ornate doors of the palace’s interior chambers beckoned. He had no plan beyond confronting the hypocrisy that had trapped him here. Yet a single line of that secret melody pulsed in his mind:

“Do you see this power? / Power you gave me / Undefeated / I am in control.”

They had unwittingly taught him everything he needed—how to hide, how to bide his time, how to unleash fury. They had molded him into something monstrous, and tonight, the beast would bare its fangs.

He lifted the sword in both hands, and just then, a cluster of royal guards advanced. Their leader shouted, “Halt, Princess! Put the weapon down!”

Instead, the prince lunged forward, all the pent-up rage fueling his blow. The clang of metal on metal reverberated down the corridor. The guard, too stunned to react properly, fell back. Shouts of alarm spread. He slashed past them, the blade glancing off armor, drawing sparks and, on occasion, a terrible, bloody consequence.

He felt the wet sting of a strike across his arm. Pain flared, but so did his resolve. A savage cry erupted from his throat, primal as any creature defending its right to live free. The corridors teemed with chaos—servants running, guards shouting, courtiers screaming at the sight of this “princess” turned berserker.

A distinct part of his mind observed it all as though from a distance. This is me, he thought. This is who I truly am: not your delicate flower but your worst nightmare. He recalled the private lyric:

“I am the nightmare you created in your head.”

Yes. Let them see the truth.

He pressed on, heading toward the throne room. The King and Queen, the priests, the entire rotten structure of forced piety and tradition—he wanted them to behold what they had wrought. Down side passages, the alarmed clergy and courtiers babbled in frantic tones. From some distant hall, the official choir continued its chants, oblivious. In his mind, however, the song’s mocking refrain grew deafening:

“And tell me you love me / It’s not my fault / It’s not my fault you love me.”

Panting, with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he slammed open the tall double doors to the grand hall. More guards rushed forward, forming a wall of pikes, but his rage was unstoppable. Swords flashed. The shriek of metal. The tang of blood in the air.

Yet behind this savage momentum, he felt oddly calm, as if the path had always led here. The final confrontation was in sight. The King would be there, enthroned on high, the symbol of everything that had denied him his rightful life.

He fought forward, ignoring the pain of shallow cuts and bruises forming on his arms. Shouts echoed, soldiers collapsed. With each step, he felt the weight of the blade grow heavier, the palace walls seeming to close in around him. But there was no going back.

At last, he stood at the entrance to the throne room itself—larger than life, glimmering with columns of polished stone. The dais at the far end held two thrones, carved from dark wood and gilded with gold. The King and Queen rose in alarm, priests circling them. Panicked courtiers scattered behind pillars. The King roared, “Seize the princess!”

But the prince—no princess at all—merely tightened his grip on the sword.

---

The throne room loomed like a giant beast’s maw—marble floors reflecting torchlight and the gleam of gilded columns. At the far side of this vast hall, the King and Queen stood in rigid shock, priests clustering around them in horror. Guards, strewn about from the prince’s furious onslaught, groaned or lay still. Splashes of crimson stained the polished tiles.

A trickle of blood ran down the prince’s forearm, soaking into the elaborate gown that clung to him like a second skin. His breathing came fast and ragged. Sword raised, eyes wild, he advanced. A part of him understood he was crossing a line from which there was no return, but it no longer mattered. Everything that had once tethered him to docility had snapped.

From behind a half-toppled column, a new voice broke through the chaos.
“Stop this, little sister!”

He turned sharply, teeth bared, only to see her : the eldest child of the King and Queen, Princess Clarice—his older sister. She stood with sword in hand, regal in her bearing but visibly shaken. Her gaze flicked over fallen guards, over the battered palace doors. At the sight of her sibling brandishing a bloody blade, her eyes filled with desperate alarm.

“Clarice,” he spat, voice rough with emotion. He had always avoided her, just as he did everyone else in the family. She was the rightful heir in the eyes of tradition—older, universally praised for her grace and unwavering devotion. In public, she was everything a royal daughter was supposed to be: beautiful, poised, devout. In private, she was seldom cruel to him, but she never acknowledged his anguish, either. She’d maintained a careful, pious distance from the scandal of a sister who claimed to be a prince.

She steadied her stance, sword trembling slightly in her hands. “You have gone mad,” she whispered. “Why…why are you doing this?”

The King barked, “Clarice, hold her here until the guards regroup!”

At the King’s order, Clarice tightened her grip, jaw set in determination. She took a few steps closer. “Enough killing,” she pleaded softly. “This isn’t you…”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You have no idea who I am.”

Before Clarice could respond, that clandestine song rose again in his mind, as though reminding him of the fury that drove him here:

“You think you’re stronger / Bow and arrow / Draw your sword now / It can’t save you now…”

No one else reacted; no one else heard it. But it filled him with a cold resolve. The sister in front of him was not just an obstacle—she was part of the system that refused to see him as anything other than a broken extension of herself.

His arm throbbed from the earlier wound. The reek of spilled blood and burnt candlewax clawed at his senses. He stared at his sister’s desperate face—at the faint tremor in her posture—unable to remember a single moment when she had tried to understand him.

“I won’t go back,” he growled.

With a cry halfway between sorrow and determination, Clarice lunged. Steel clashed against steel, ringing through the vaulted hall. The priests retreated in terror, and the King roared again for more guards. Courtiers cowered behind pillars.

Striking blow after blow, Clarice fought with well-trained precision. She had been groomed for leadership, prepared to defend her station if ever the kingdom required it. Her swordsmanship spoke of countless hours in the practice yard. Yet the prince’s fury made him unpredictable. Each slash he delivered carried the weight of a lifetime’s pent-up rage.

“I’ve always envied you,” Clarice hissed through gritted teeth, batting aside one of his thrusts. Her eyes were wet with tears. “Your fire, your refusal to bow even when it cost you everything.”

He scoffed, pressing forward. “You never once supported me. You never once stood up to our father when he beat me down!”

A flicker of guilt passed over her face, but she did not lower her weapon. “I couldn’t… I—”

She was forced to parry another strike. Their blades scraped and locked, faces inches apart. Over Clarice’s shoulder, the prince glimpsed the Queen, pale and trembling, while the King roared commands at a handful of arriving guards. The entire hall seethed with frantic energy.

Blood pounded in his ears. A savage part of him exulted in this chaos. Finally, they see me. But even as adrenaline surged, a faint pang tugged at his conscience. Clarice was not the one who pronounced the cruel edicts. She had been another cog in this merciless machine, just like him.

Her voice tore him from his thoughts: “Surrender!” she demanded. “We can fix this—stop the killing! I’ll— I’ll speak to Father. We’ll find a way!”

He flinched, recognizing the note of sincerity. But it was far too late. The monarchy had proven that it valued only obedience. He could never trust them to offer him a place at the throne as a prince, nor even to let him live as one.

“No more lies,” he growled.

He twisted his blade free and swept it in a sudden arc. Clarice parried, but the shock of it reverberated up her arms. As she stumbled, he pressed the attack, forcing her back across the slippery floor.

Her foot found no traction on the blood-slick marble, and she fell hard onto her side. Panicked, she swung upward, narrowly missing his torso. He stepped forward, blade raised.

“Don’t—!” she pleaded, eyes wide with horror.

For a heartbeat, the prince hesitated, chest heaving. Then the next line of that private melody seared through his mind:

“Do you see this power? / Power you gave me / Undefeated / I am in control.”

If there was any chance to end this vicious rule, he could not falter. With a cry that mixed fury and sorrow, he brought the sword down. Clarice threw up her arm in a desperate block, but the angle was off—his blade tore into her shoulder, slicing diagonally across her chest. A burst of crimson stained her regal attire.

She choked, lips parted in silent anguish. For an instant, time seemed to freeze. Her eyes found his—filled with both heartbreak and a wordless apology for never having done enough.

He stared, breath caught in his throat. What have I done?

Her sword clattered to the floor, ringing out like a funeral knell. Then she collapsed, the world resuming its roar.

A stunned hush gripped the throne room. The queen’s shriek pierced the air. The King, face contorted with rage and despair, lurched forward as if to charge. But the fresh wave of guards forced him back, forming a protective ring. Courtiers looked on in horror, covering their mouths in trembling shock.

Chest heaving, the prince staggered a step away from Clarice’s motionless form. He could still feel her blood warm on his hands. A thousand memories flashed—brief childhood moments when she’d tried to be gentle, if distant. He had taken her life.

“Love won’t free me / Love won’t free you / Love will curse me…”

The quiet lyric thrummed in his skull, almost mocking. This tragic moment was an inevitable outcome of a love twisted into control, of a family that refused to see or accept him. No redemption, the melody seemed to say. No turning back.

“You filth!” the King thundered, voice cracking under a father’s grief. “Guards! Stop that wretch!”

The newcomers—armored soldiers streaming in through side doors—surged forward. The prince gripped his sword more tightly, though a hollow ache spread in his chest, nearly robbing him of breath. His sister’s death hung in the air, heavy and irreversible.

Scraping footsteps, shouted orders—every sound blended into a cacophony. The prince realized he was badly outnumbered. At this rate, he would be trapped, pinned against the columns or the dais. The King’s voice roared, but to the prince it sounded muffled, as though submerged underwater.

He risked one last glance at Clarice’s still body. In that same moment, more soldiers closed in. He ducked a pike aimed at his chest and slashed upward. Another soldier lunged, but the prince sidestepped. The swirl of violence continued.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw his mother—ashen-faced—clutching at the King’s arm, screaming about their eldest daughter. Far behind them stood another figure: the prince’s older brother, at the throne room’s edge, watching with silent fury. Their gazes locked for an instant, a cold promise of confrontation to come.

A guard rushed in from the side. The prince spun, sword cutting across the man’s chest. A fountain of blood sprayed, and the guard collapsed. Gasps rippled from those who still cowered near the pillars.

“Surround the traitor!” the King bellowed.

The prince realized with a pounding heart that he had to escape or risk being cornered. Every muscle screamed, but his mind conjured the final lyric from the swirling storm in his head:

“Think love is healing? / Love won’t free me…”

A savage calm fell over him. No love here—only the raw instinct to survive. He sprinted down a narrower corridor branching off the throne room’s left side, knocking aside two trembling servants in his path. The hall beyond led to a set of double doors that opened onto a mezzanine overlooking the courtyard.

Shouts echoed behind him as guards gave chase. Pain flared in his side, but he kept running. The corridor’s high windows revealed night’s dark sky, swirling with storm clouds. The tapestry on the walls flapped in gusts of wind from the battered doors.

He burst through the final set of doors onto the mezzanine. Rain had started to fall, slicking the stone balustrade. He could see a raging courtyard below—more guards, more panicked attendants. Torchlight flickered, half extinguished by the downpour.

Steps thundered behind him. He turned, sword at the ready, prepared for another furious clash. Four guards, panting and determined, fanned out to block his escape.

Lightning flickered outside, casting monstrous shadows across the balcony. Somewhere in the distance, the King’s outraged voice reverberated. The prince’s heart hammered. They will never let me go free.

Yet at the edge of his hearing, the quiet, private melody swelled once more, pushing him past the horror of what he’d done.

“It’s not my fault…
It’s not my fault you love me…”

He raised his blade in a trembling grip. The wind whipped at his hair, sending cold rain against his face.

Behind the guards, at the balcony entrance, he caught a glimpse of his older brother standing stock-still. Their eyes met again—two points of focus in a chaos of swirling storm and torchlight. The brother’s rage was incandescent, but something else simmered there, too: heartbreak, maybe, for the sister lost.

A voice in the prince’s mind whispered that the next confrontation would be even worse. If they remained here, locked in steel and fury, more blood would soak the palace stones.

Lightning lit up the sky once more, and the distant thunder rumbled like a funeral drum. The guards closed in, setting spears for a final strike. The prince exhaled, bracing.

He would not die as their “princess.” If he was going to fall, it would be on his own terms.

The moment sharpened into a hush. Then he lunged forward.

---

Rain slicked the stones beneath the prince’s feet as he dashed through the palace’s winding corridors, sword clutched tight. Shouts chased him—orders barked by captains, the distant wail of grieving servants, the clash of steel as scattered defenders tried to corner him. Every nerve felt on fire, fueled by a mingling of guilt and rage.

He emerged into an open-air courtyard. Lightning shattered the sky overhead, revealing a twisted tapestry of drenched flagstones and tumbled bodies. He did not pause to count how many guards or courtiers had met his blade tonight. The world was reduced to raw survival, to the thunder of his pulse. A swirl of wind tore at his hair, blending with the low moan of distant horns summoning reinforcements.

Flee, some small voice urged, yet he pressed onward, deeper into the heart of the palace. A labyrinth of staircases spiraled up toward the lofty towers that soared above the ramparts. Perhaps if he reached higher ground, he could evade capture—or at least force a final confrontation on his own terms.

At each turn, the prince found more soldiers, their eyes aflame with loyalty to a monarchy he despised. He met them with furious purpose, the sword an extension of his body. Fear and desperation honed his reflexes. Still, every encounter sapped his strength. Cuts formed across his arms, burning with the downpour. His breath came in ragged gasps.

Lightning illuminated the path ahead: a narrow, winding stair that led to the highest tower, known for its sweeping view of the sea cliffs far below. Without hesitation, he plunged into its upward climb. His soaked gown clung to him, heavy with rain and blood. Footsteps thundered behind him, echoing up the stone steps.

A hidden melody, that private refrain only he seemed to hear, swelled in his mind. Over the roar of the storm, over the pounding of his heart, he caught snatches of his own voice singing. Or was it all in his head?

“Is this a savior’s complex? / That you have come to create…”

He ground his teeth. They had imposed their savior’s complex—he, the princess who never existed, the false paragon of virtue. Now that falsehood lay drowned in blood.

At last, he reached the tower’s summit. Rain battered the open parapet, the wind near strong enough to topple a grown man. Beyond the battlements, darkness reigned, broken only by the lightning that revealed swirling black waters at the cliff’s base. The sea below churned in a frenzy, vast and merciless.

He staggered toward the edge, sword still in hand. Another flash of lightning, and he whirled—someone had followed. From the stairwell stepped his elder brother, eyes blazing with anguish. Taller than the prince by a head, clad in partial armor, the brother advanced with grim purpose. Rain streamed down his face, but did not wash away the fury etched there.

“Sister,” the brother rasped, voice trembling. “You will pay for Clarice.”

The prince’s heart lurched. Once, long ago, he had looked up to this brother, a paragon of knightly prowess. But that had been before the palace’s traditions turned them into strangers, before the brother stood silent while the King enforced cruelty. “I am not your sister,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not now. Not ever.”

A moment of silence stretched between them, broken only by the howl of the wind. Then the brother drew his sword, steel glinting in the flicker of lightning. “You took our sister from us,” he said, barely audible over the storm. “You’ve shattered this family. I should end you here and now.”

“Try,” the prince growled, gripping his own blade with both hands.

They lunged, and steel rang out over the howling winds. The prince’s fatigue weighed on him, each swing a desperate effort. His brother fought with disciplined skill—every strike methodical, refined by years of rigorous training. Each clash jarred the prince’s bones. He felt his breath grow labored, felt the sting of fresh wounds as the brother’s blade found gaps in his defense.

Rain lashed the tower’s stones, making each step treacherous. The prince managed to drive a blow toward the brother’s shoulder, but it was deflected with ease. Sparks danced from the clash. A counterstrike sliced across the prince’s thigh, and he choked back a cry.

Focus, he told himself, though dizziness pulled at the edges of his vision. The brother pressed the advantage, forcing him back. “You’ve destroyed everything,” his brother said through clenched teeth. “Your madness ends here.”

Rage flared anew in the prince’s chest. “It was your blindness that let this happen!” he spat, locking blades. “All I ever asked for was to be seen for who I am!”

The brother grimaced, eyes brimming with raw sorrow. “And it brought you to murder.”

Thunder crashed. Their swords parted, then locked again. The prince tried a feint, hoping to exploit some open angle, but he was too slow. His injuries sapped strength from his arms, and his brother’s mastery outmatched his wild fury.

Lightning revealed their faces—both contorted, both bearing the same determined line of the jaw that marked them as kin. The brother hammered the prince’s guard, blow after brutal blow. The prince’s wrists screamed in protest.

“Draw your sword now / It can’t save you now…”

The phantom lyric slashed through his mind, mocking. He felt his footing slip on the wet stones. The brother seized that moment, sweeping in with a savage thrust that knocked the sword from the prince’s grasp. It clattered against the stones, skidding to the tower’s edge.

Gasping, the prince staggered back until his shoulders met cold stone—the low parapet wall. Wind and rain whipped around him, thunder rattling the very air. The brother advanced, sword leveled at the prince’s chest.

Pain spiked through every inch of his battered body. He glanced at the fallen sword a few paces away, but the brother’s blade blocked any hope of retrieving it. The next flash of lightning showed the anguish twisting the brother’s features. “Did you ever think of us ?” he whispered, tears mingling with the rain. “Did you ever think what this would cost?”

The prince’s chest convulsed. Clarice’s pale face flickered in his mind, the memory of her final breath searing his conscience. There was no undoing that act. No returning to any innocence. The monarchy’s illusions had forced him into a monstrous shape, and now the cost was immeasurable.

He looked down. A sheer drop yawned behind him, the dark waters below raging against jagged rocks. He could hear the thunderous crash of the waves.

His brother drew a breath, sword trembling. “Come back inside,” he pleaded, though his eyes were hard. “Face justice. End this.”

But justice in this kingdom had never once sided with him. An empty laugh rattled from the prince’s throat, lost in the storm’s roar. “There’s no place for me here,” he said. “Not in these walls.”

He glanced over his shoulder. White foam churned far below, beckoning with a terrible finality. The wind keened like a mourner at a wake. Slowly, he raised his arms, palms outward, as though in surrender.

The brother’s sword wavered. In that instant, the prince let himself arch backward over the parapet wall.

“NO!” The brother lunged, fingers catching at empty air. Time seemed to slow, the thunder’s rumble replaced by the rush of blood in the prince’s ears. He felt the stone edge leave his feet. Rain battered his face, the wind tearing at his garments as gravity pulled him down.

He plummeted backward into darkness, away from the palace spires, away from the brother’s anguished cry. In that suspended moment, it was only him, the storm-lashed void, and the final lines of that private song echoing through the hollow in his chest. He couldn’t tell if he was merely hearing them in his thoughts or screaming them aloud:

“It’s not my fault you love me
’Cause I’m not your girl
You’re no hero…”

Wind whipped past like the roar of a thousand voices. The tower lights receded into the swirling storm above. The black sea rushed up to meet him, an endless maw opening wide. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the faint silhouette of a younger self, wooden sword clutched in boyish hands, free and unbound by anyone’s commands.

Then he struck the waters. Freezing shock consumed him, wrenching the air from his lungs. He sank into the fathomless depths, the final note of that song fading in his mind. Darkness pressed in from all sides, erasing the last thought of whether he had finally escaped—or had only found oblivion.

Everything went black.

Dawn broke over a stretch of rugged shoreline, the sky streaked with pale gold and faint lavender. A salted wind dragged itself across the open sea, laying a crisp chill upon the gray waters and the jagged rocks. There, near a small cove where the ocean had carved out a sandy crescent, a young fisherman trudged through the damp sand, eyes scanning for salvage. Storms often washed oddments of driftwood or the occasional wreckage onto this remote beach. But on that particular morning, he found something infinitely stranger: a body.

It was a figure dressed in tatters of what must once have been fine fabric. At first glance, the fisherman feared the person was long dead. Yet as he knelt and turned the limp form over, he saw a ragged, shallow breath. Streaks of blood had dried across the forehead, and the cold had settled into pallid skin. Tangles of hair clung to salt-rimed cheeks. The fisherman cupped the stranger’s face and felt a faint trace of warmth.

“H-help,” he croaked, calling out to his companions. Two other villagers, both hauling empty nets, rushed over. Their eyes widened at the battered figure. Together, they lifted the stranger gingerly and carried him back to the huts perched near the shore.

Days turned into weeks in a blur of fever and hushed murmurs. A small cluster of peasants—fisherfolk and foragers eking out a meager living from the sea and the untamed forest beyond—looked on with uncertain compassion. They had no clue who this person was or from whence he had come. The only certainty was that he was near death.

Gradually, the color seeped back into his cheeks. Nightmares seized him at odd hours; he would thrash and mumble incoherently about knives, blood, a burning rage. Some nights, he cried out in terror, choking on phantom seawater. The fisherman’s wife, a gentle, big-hearted woman named Marta, tended him with herbal poultices and hot broth. She insisted the half-drowned stranger would recover if fate willed it. “One more mouth to feed, but heaven knows no child of the sea should die alone,” she told her neighbors, who half agreed and half worried about the burden.

The first time he stirred enough to speak coherently, Marta was at his bedside. He whispered only one phrase: “I’m a prince… I’m… not…” Then tears choked him. Marta smoothed the hair from his face, thinking perhaps delirium had taken hold. She told him softly, “Hush now. You’re safe.”

It took another week before he could walk without swaying, supported by a makeshift crutch. The tightness in his chest and ribs reminded him of the brutal fall he had taken, how the sea had swallowed him. Fragments of memory flickered: the throne room bathed in torchlight, his sister’s pale face, his brother’s sword. Pain clenched his stomach each time he recalled that final confrontation. He remembered pitching backward into the stormy void. After that, only darkness.

He stood one morning outside the fisherman’s hut, letting the briny wind buffet his face. He could not remain silent about his identity forever. These kind souls deserved the truth, or at least as much truth as he could bear to share. But which truth? The half-lies about a lost princess from a land far away? Or the deeper truth: that he was a prince, never a princess, who had torn his family apart in a spree of bloodshed?

He tested the words on his tongue: I am the prince. They still felt surreal, as though referencing someone else’s tragedy. Yet he knew, in his bones, that continuing to live as the palace’s “princess” was impossible. Something in him had died on that throne room floor, along with Clarice. What remained was a battered man—exiled from everything he once knew, cast adrift in a life where he might finally be recognized for who he was.

That evening, as Marta and her husband Coren sat by the hearth, he eased himself onto a stool, breathing shallowly from the pain in his ribcage. Flickers of firelight danced across the rough-hewn walls.

“I should speak to you,” he said quietly. Their curious gazes settled on him. “I owe you an explanation for…for everything.”

Coren nodded, brow furrowed. “Speak. We’ll listen.”

A part of him wanted to laugh—how simple, how direct. No formalities, no ranks, no fear of humiliating scorn. So he began, voice rasping at first, telling them his name—he used the name he had always longed to claim, a name untainted by the palace’s shackles. They looked puzzled, as if they expected a more common name. But neither Marta nor Coren interrupted.

He hesitated, then pressed on. “I am a man. I was not born into a life that allowed that truth, but I assure you, I’ve always been a man.” A swirl of emotions churned in his chest, but he forced himself to continue. “The clothes, the mannerisms—my family forced them on me. I was…someone’s ‘daughter,’ but that is not who I am. Not who I’ve ever been.”

Coren exchanged a glance with Marta. The fisherman’s wife exhaled softly, her gaze full of a gentle acceptance. “All right,” she said. “If that’s who you are, it’s who you are.” Her voice lacked the surprise he had feared.

He swallowed, relief and confusion warring in him. That’s it? No condemnation, no mocking sneers, no forced correction. No one demanding he pretend. The wave of gratitude nearly brought tears to his eyes.

Coren rested his elbows on his knees. “We might not be fancy courtiers, lad, but we know folks come in different stripes. If you’re a man, you’re a man.” He paused, choosing words carefully. “But these are troubled times. If you have a past that might bring trouble to our door, we’d like to know.”

That question weighed like lead in the prince’s stomach. He took a shaky breath. “Yes…my past is dangerous.” He could not bring himself to say the word prince. Perhaps he feared they would view him as tainted nobility or a murderer. After all, he had killed people—had drawn blood in a rage that still haunted his dreams. “But I swear, I do not wish harm on you or your home. You saved my life.”

Coren and Marta exchanged another thoughtful look. Outside, the wind rattled the hut’s loose shutter, emphasizing the quiet moment. At last, Marta set a comforting hand on the prince’s shoulder. “You’ll work to earn your keep,” she said, a gentle firmness in her tone. “And we’ll call you what you wish to be called. That’s enough for us right now.”

He managed the faintest of smiles, tears threatening again. “Thank you.”

That night, lying on a pallet in the corner, listening to the rhythmic breath of the household asleep, he mulled over the transformation of his life. Cast into the sea, presumed dead by the palace—he had the freedom to forge a new identity, to step out from under the monstrous legacy he’d left behind. At the same time, the fury still glowed like an ember. His father’s face, his mother’s cold aloofness, his siblings’ complicity…he could not forget.

Weeks passed. The prince, soon called by a simple shortened name—Adair—learned the routines of the village. He rose before dawn to gather driftwood, patched nets, helped smoke the fish. He carried water from the well, wrestling with his still-sore body. Over time, his strength returned. Gone were the formal gowns and the suffocating decorum. He wore simple tunics and breeches, the coarse fabric raw against his skin but far more fitting for who he was.

He began to notice the subtle tensions in this small community. The talk of heavy taxes, of tithes demanded by local lords loyal to the crown. Marta’s sister had been forced to send half her harvest in tribute, leaving them barely enough to survive the winter. Children went hungry while the King’s officials collected gold and grain. Adair saw the resentful glares whenever a tax-collector’s insignia reared its head.

In the evenings, as villagers gathered around the communal fire, they spoke in low, cautious tones of rumored rebellions, of traveling outlaws who struck at royal caravans. Names surfaced—rebels, rogues, folk heroes—details jumbled by rumor and speculation. Adair listened with quiet intensity, feeling a stirring in his chest. Violence directed at the royal house…

Once, he retreated from the group, haunted by a memory of the blood-slick palace floors. He told himself he should bury those old hatreds and start anew. But the next morning, a royal guard patrol visited the village, roughing up two farmers who were late on taxes. Adair watched the soldiers sneer, watched them use the butt of a spear to strike an elderly man to the ground. Rage boiled in his veins—rage at the monarchy that had never cared for its people, that had taught him cruelty firsthand.

But he kept silent, stepping forward only to help the old man up once the patrol left. If they knew who he really was—if they sensed the threat he posed—this sanctuary would be destroyed.

As time passed, he grew bolder in small ways. With a few younger villagers, he slipped into the forest on moonlit nights, practicing archery with a humble bow he’d carved himself. He taught them rudimentary sword moves with wooden sticks—what little he remembered from stolen moments in the palace training yard. They were stunned by how quickly he adapted, how fluidly he moved. Adair tried not to let bitterness seep into his every word, but sometimes it spilled over. “These are the skills of our oppressors,” he hissed one evening, “but we can make them our own.”

They nodded, enthusiasm tempered by the fear of retaliation. Rebels might be lauded in quiet corners for stealing from the rich to feed the poor, but the King’s justice was swift and brutal. Tales abounded of entire villages razed for harboring outlaws. Still, the seeds of defiance had been planted.

Adair’s position in the village solidified. He was neither master nor commander, simply a man with a mysterious past and a fierce sense of justice. The fisherfolk might have been suspicious at first, but his willingness to work hard and share his knowledge of swordsmanship won them over. When he quietly confided his desire to see the monarchy’s power weakened, if not destroyed, some listened with a dark gleam in their eyes. They, too, had lost loved ones to the palace’s merciless taxes and punishments.

One crisp afternoon, Marta found Adair standing at the edge of the village, staring out to sea. She sensed the turmoil in him. “You’ve grown stronger,” she said kindly, “but I see a restlessness, too.”

He exhaled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t belong here, not forever. Your kindness saved me, but I can’t stand by while the King—while that entire palace—continues to crush ordinary folk. I was…close to them once. I know how they think. I’ve seen their cruelty.”

Marta’s eyes were sharp with understanding. “So you’ll fight them?”

“Yes,” he admitted, voice low. “I can’t let what happened to me—or to so many others—remain unchallenged.”

A small pause. “I won’t tell you it’ll be easy,” she said softly. “Folks around here…we’ve heard stories of roving bandits who pass themselves off as heroes. They’re not always noble. Some are just thieves. But we’ve also heard rumors—of real rebellions forming in the north, in the hidden camps. Of leaders stepping forward.”

Adair nodded, emboldened by her support. “I aim to find them. Or gather people here. Either way, the kingdom must change.”

That evening, beneath the flickering lantern of the fisherman’s hut, Adair gathered a few like-minded villagers—young people who chafed under royal rule. They spoke in hushed tones, planning small raids on local tax caravans or outposts. Simple goals to free imprisoned villagers or steal back the harvest stolen by the lords. Each new scheme lit a spark in Adair’s eyes, a reflection of the smoldering resentment that had once erupted violently in the palace halls.

No longer was he a hidden, tortured figure forced into submission. Now he was a nascent rebel, forging a path that might one day topple the very monarchy that denied him his rightful self. Yet he could not completely banish the guilt that haunted him at night—images of Clarice’s final breath, the brother’s anguished face. Am I just continuing the cycle of bloodshed? he wondered in the darkness. But then he remembered the old man struck down by the tax collector’s spear, the broken families left hungry, and the silent acceptance that had let him suffer for years. Violence was not chosen; it was forced upon them by those who refused to yield power.

Thus, the days began shifting into something new: stealthy reconnaissance, quiet gatherings in barns, and whispered signals in the moonlight. At first, only four or five souls joined Adair in these clandestine efforts. But word traveled, carried by travelers and through discreet messages. Tales spread of a tall, dark-haired stranger who had once survived the palace’s cruelty and now led small raids to free the oppressed.

He did not reveal his true heritage. Instead, he let rumors swirl—some said he was an exiled noble, others that he was the bastard son of a minor lord. A few whispered that he was the dreaded “Princess” returned from the dead. Adair neither confirmed nor denied. Mystery served him well.

As the circle of rebels grew, so did their ambitions. They seized a shipment of grain headed for the King’s granaries, redistributing it among starving families. They ambushed a petty noble known for terrorizing peasants, forcing him to sign over farmland rights to the villagers. Their tactics were not always gentle—Adair’s sword had tasted blood before, and he no longer hesitated when threatened. But they tried, wherever possible, to spare those who surrendered.

Meanwhile, the monarchy could not ignore the rising tide of rebellion. Reports of stolen cargo, rescued prisoners, and rebellious pockets filtered up the chain of command. Loyal soldiers were dispatched to track down these rogues. Adair and his allies had to move carefully, changing hideouts often, ensuring the local people shielded them.

On a chill night beneath a scattering of stars, Adair found himself huddling in the old barn that served as their current base. A small map lay spread on a makeshift table, lit by a single flickering lantern. It depicted the region’s roads and watchtowers—lines of ink marking the King’s hold on the land. A handful of rebel leaders crowded around, voices hushed but crackling with resolve.

“This next raid,” one of them, a burly forester, said, pointing to a route near the forest’s edge, “should be on the tax wagon. It carries gold meant for the capital. If we take that, we can fund weapons and supplies for many more.”

“Agreed,” said a young woman who had lost two brothers to the King’s dungeons. “But we need a diversion. They’ll have a full escort this time.”

Adair studied the map. “We can stage an ambush near the rocky pass, where the cliffs overshadow the road. A couple of us scale the ledge and drop boulders to block the path—then the rest close in from the forest. We disable the guards quickly and retreat with the spoils before reinforcements arrive.”

Nods all around. Excitement pulsed in the air. They began assigning roles. The plan would be dangerous—any misstep could mean swift retribution. Yet they felt unstoppable, powered by desperation and the just cause of freeing the exploited.

In a quiet moment, Adair glanced out the barn door, at the pale moon overhead. Memory tugged: a flicker of that cliff, that stormy night, his fall into the sea. If he died in this rebellion, would the water close over him again in a swirl of darkness? He pushed aside the thought, focusing on the fight ahead. I should have died that night, but I survived for a reason. He would see this through.

The whiff of woodsmoke brought him back to the present. He turned to his cohorts, resolute. “Prepare yourselves. At dawn, we move.”

Their gazes met his, brimming with a quiet fervor. The spark of rebellion had caught. Soon, that spark would become a wildfire—and with it, the long shadow of vengeance would reach toward the palace walls.

Dawn arrived quietly, the sky awash in pale pink and muted gold, as Adair and his small band of rebels set out on foot. Leaves rustled underfoot in the hush of early morning. The group was tense with anticipation, carrying bows, rudimentary swords, and stolen spears. They traveled light, each person hauling only essential supplies. Their target: the King’s tax wagon, which would be escorted by armed soldiers on a road snaking through rocky terrain near the forest’s western edge.

Word of their plan had spread to a handful of sympathetic villagers, who promised to divert any roving patrols. Still, the risk weighed heavily on everyone. A single spy or a loose tongue could condemn them all. Adair knew that all too well—no rebellion was safe from betrayal. Yet his determination to cut at the monarchy’s lifeblood steadied his nerves.

They reached the high ridge overlooking the forest road just as the sun cleared the horizon. From their vantage point behind boulders and sparse evergreens, they could see the winding path below, bracketed by rocky cliffs on one side and thick undergrowth on the other. If their information was correct, the tax wagon, laden with gold and escorted by a dozen soldiers, would appear within the hour.

The rebels split into teams. Three of the strongest climbers—including the burly forester—scaled the slope just above the narrowest part of the road, positioning themselves behind precariously balanced rocks. The rest crouched in the underbrush, weapons close at hand, hearts hammering with nerves and resolve. Adair moved among them, offering quiet words of reassurance.

“Remember,” he whispered, “we strike fast. If they surrender, we let them live. If they fight—” He paused, meeting their eyes. “We show no mercy. For every day we hesitate, more of our people starve or bleed under the crown.”

They nodded, jaws set. Some carried personal grudges—family members taken by royal dungeons, farmland seized, children lost to the palace’s punishments. Others fought for the simple ideal of a land where peasants weren’t treated as expendable. Adair recognized the ferocious commitment in their expressions. It matched the embers in his own heart.

A half-hour later, the sound of horses’ hooves drummed against the hard-packed road below. Through gaps in the foliage, they glimpsed the royal crest emblazoned on a wagon’s side—a stylized lion in gold, the King’s sigil. The lead soldier lifted a gloved hand, signaling caution as they neared the cliffside. Armored figures rode in front, with several guards walking alongside the wagon. The day’s sunlight glanced off their steel helms.

High above, one of the rebels waiting with the boulders waved a cloth signal. Adair tensed, every muscle coiled. The plan began.

There was a thunderous crash as two large rocks tumbled down the slope, kicking up clouds of dust. Horses whinnied, rearing in panic. The driver yanked the reins to avoid the falling debris; the wagon jolted sideways, nearly tipping. Shouts of alarm tore through the air. Soldiers scrambled, some diving aside to dodge the rolling boulders.

“Now!” Adair hissed.

His group broke from the undergrowth, arrows already nocked. The first volley cut down three soldiers who were still disoriented by the avalanche. Chaos reigned in an instant—horses stampeded, the wagon driver tried to right the vehicle, and the surviving soldiers scrambled to form a defensive line.

“Hold the line!” one of the royal officers bellowed, brandishing a halberd.

Adair leapt forward, brandishing a sword. He’d practiced as best he could, but real combat always carried a sharper edge. He aimed for the nearest soldier, knocking aside the man’s spear with a practiced twist. Another rebel darted forward to finish him off. Blood sprayed onto the dusty ground.

Above them, the forester and the others on the slope continued to push smaller rocks and debris, creating a barrier on the road to block any potential reinforcements. The soldiers, trapped between a landslide and a wall of armed peasants, fought with desperate ferocity. But they were outnumbered and caught off-guard.

Adair ducked a sword swing, feeling the whoosh of air. He retaliated with a slash that bit into armor, driving the soldier back. A quick glance revealed that the wagon was listing precariously, its wheels jammed in the torn-up earth. Some of the rebels converged on it, prying open the locked chest of gold while others covered them with arrows.

A soldier tried to charge them from behind. Adair sprang to intercept, crossing blades in a violent clash. The soldier—tall, broad-shouldered—pressed him back with brute force. Pain jolted through Adair’s still-healing ribs, but the memory of the palace spurred him on. I fought worse, he reminded himself. I survived the throne room. He twisted low and rammed his shoulder into the soldier’s midsection, toppling him. One of Adair’s allies finished the job with a dagger to the neck.

All around, the rebels’ ragtag training proved sufficient to hold back the panicked guards. Within minutes, the skirmish drew to a close. Dust and blood stained the morning air. Horses lay screaming or bolted into the forest. Only a handful of royal soldiers still breathed—most cowered against the wagon, weapons abandoned.

Adair, chest heaving, surveyed the carnage. The gold-laden chest had been pried open, revealing glittering coin. Two rebels hastily divided it into sacks. Others checked the wounded, finishing off those soldiers too stubborn to surrender. Adair felt a familiar twinge of guilt at the sight, but he hardened himself. This is the price of fighting a merciless crown.

The survivors among the king’s escort knelt in terror, hands on their heads. “Spare us!” one pleaded. “We’re only following orders.”

A younger rebel hissed, “That’s what the palace dogs always say.” She raised her weapon, face twisted with hatred.

Adair laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Let them go. They’ll carry the tale back to their masters.” He turned cold eyes on the defeated soldiers. “Tell them who did this. Tell them there is a rebellion that will no longer cower in the fields.”

The unspoken message hung heavy: We are coming for the throne.

They stripped the fallen of weapons, horses, and armor. Then, with the sacks of coin, the rebels vanished into the forest. Within days, that gold would be distributed among the starving villages in the region, funding more equipment and recruiting fresh allies. The success of the ambush ignited new confidence. They were no longer a ragged handful of peasants—they were a growing resistance, hungry for a reckoning.

That evening, back at their hidden camp, the rebels gathered under a makeshift canopy. Lantern light revealed jubilant faces. “We did it!” one exclaimed, raising a mug of stolen ale in toast. “We struck real fear into the King’s men today.”

Cheering followed. Some took turns recounting their heroic moments in the fight. Others, still dazed by the violence, simply nursed minor wounds and stared at the dark forest beyond. Adair sat on a stump at the edge of the group, quietly sipping water. Triumph mingled with a heavy awareness of how many more battles awaited.

A broad-shouldered youth, Elias, approached him. “We owe this victory to you,” he said, voice hushed so the others wouldn’t overhear. “None of us had the nerve to challenge the throne so directly before you came.”

Adair shook his head. “You owe your victory to your own courage. I just…sparked it.”

“But you have a plan,” Elias insisted, curiosity lighting his eyes. “Sometimes it’s like you know the King’s tactics, as though you’ve been close to them before. Who are you, really?”

Adair’s grip tightened on his mug. So many times he had skirted the truth of his origin. Had the rumors reached them—that he might be the fabled princess, back from the dead? Or simply a rogue noble? He forced a thin smile. “I was once close enough to see their cruelty up close. Let that be enough.”

Elias seemed poised to press further, but a roar of laughter interrupted them—one of the rebels had tried to toast too vigorously and toppled backward off a log. Adair used the distraction to slip away, heading deeper into the forest. He needed solitude to calm the turmoil in his mind.

He traced a winding path lit by moonlight, the distant crackle of campfires fading behind him. The forest pressed close, whispering of hidden animals and rustling leaves. He found a small clearing near a gnarled old tree. Taking a seat among its roots, he stared at the stars through interlaced branches.

In his mind, the swirl of rebellion mixed with older, darker memories. The song that once rattled in his head—the lyrics that only he heard—was gone, replaced by the quiet of night. Yet his thoughts still echoed the lines that had haunted him: “You’re no hero…” He sometimes wondered if that voice would return, mocking him as it had in the palace. Would it accuse him of being just as bloodthirsty, just as complicit?

A faint snap of twigs brought him alert. He turned, hand on the hilt of his belt knife, to see Marta stepping into the clearing. She raised a palm to show she meant no harm. “I saw you leave,” she said gently. “You all right?”

He exhaled, letting his guard down. “Yes…just needed air.”

She gazed at him, a maternal concern in her eyes. “I remember the night we found you. You were more dead than alive, and yet I could see a spark in you, something unbroken. Now you’ve turned that spark into a flame that spreads hope.”

Adair’s throat tightened. “Hope,” he murmured. “And more violence. I killed people today.”

“Those soldiers would have done the same to us, for the crown’s coin,” Marta said firmly. “You’re not the one who started this war.”

He stared at the moonlit forest floor. Silence stretched between them. Finally, he let out a soft breath. “I can’t undo what I’ve done in the past, but I can fight so that others won’t be forced into the same horror. I just—” He trailed off, uncertain how to articulate the guilt and rage that still warred inside him.

Marta gave a small nod. “Then keep fighting. It’s all you can do now.”

She left him there, standing in the hush of the woods. He closed his eyes, turning her words over in his mind. A faint sense of purpose stirred. Yes, keep fighting. Keep building until the palace trembles. He would not let the monarchy define him as a broken puppet or a monster. The rebels he gathered would see him as a leader and a friend, and perhaps, one day, a prince in truth—even if they never knew his birthright.

In the weeks that followed, the small band’s success in raiding the King’s assets drew more volunteers, trickling in from scattered villages. Peasants, disillusioned soldiers, even a rogue priest or two who believed the crown had strayed from divine purpose. They brought with them weapons, information, and fervor.

By moonlight, Adair and his lieutenants scouted watchtowers and lightly manned outposts, striking unexpectedly. They freed prisoners, seized wagons of grain, burned official records to disrupt tax collection. Each victory bolstered their name: BELLATORES, some began to call them—the warriors, the fighters for the common folk. Adair shrugged off the new moniker at first, but it began to spread among allies and frightened officials alike.

Stories reached them of the King’s fury growing. Patrols doubled, bounties were posted, and rumors whispered of a special unit—elite soldiers—dispatched to hunt down the rebels. It was no small thing to challenge the crown openly. Adair’s group had to move their base from one forest hideout to another, rarely lingering in the same camp more than a week.

Yet even with the threat looming, recruits kept coming, drawn by whispers of a mysterious leader who fought like a man with nothing left to lose. Some said he was a vengeful spirit; others believed he was the rightful heir to a lost throne. Adair gave no explanations. He simply trained them, fed them, and readied them for the next strike.

One evening, huddled around a campfire in a cave near the cliffs, they planned something bigger: a coordinated raid on a royal armory. If they succeeded, they would have enough weapons to outfit an army. It would be their boldest move yet. Adair, studying a rough map, felt the old surge of fury. Yes, he thought. Soon the King’s tyranny will face a reckoning.

The flicker of the fire lit the determination in his eyes. He glanced at the eager faces around him—people who had found a cause worth risking their lives for. We will build this rebellion until the palace falls, he vowed silently, even if it means facing the ghosts of my old life head-on.

Grey clouds gathered in the sky as Adair and his rebel company set out for the royal armory—a sprawling fortress on the edge of the King’s southern territories. Evening shadows stretched long over the road as they traveled in secrecy, splitting into smaller groups to avoid attracting suspicion. The plan was audacious: break into the well-guarded compound, seize its cache of swords, spears, and bows, then slip away before reinforcements could trap them.

They had prepared meticulously. Scouts had observed shift changes, guard rotations, and supply deliveries. Allies within nearby villages stood ready to distract patrols with feigned emergencies. Despite these measures, tension ran high. The armory was no mere tax wagon; it was a keystone of the monarchy’s military power.

Roughly fifty rebels participated—some armed with stolen weapons, others carrying only clubs or heavy cudgels. Their breath plumed in the chilly dusk. A hush lay over the group, broken only by the crunch of boots on the gravel path. Adair moved at the center, face set in grim determination, mind afire with strategy. If they pulled this off, the tide of revolt would surge. If they failed, many would die, and their nascent rebellion could collapse under royal retribution.

As twilight deepened, they reached the outer perimeter of the fortress grounds. Through gaps in the thick hedges, they could glimpse torchlit walls and tall watchtowers. The single gate loomed ahead—a heavy iron portcullis flanked by two towers. A handful of guards milled about, bored but vigilant.

Adair motioned for everyone to stay low. Several rebels peeled off to their assigned positions, crouching behind overgrown shrubs and fallen logs. Past the gate, an inner courtyard led to the armory itself—a squat, formidable building of stone reinforced with steel. Climbing the walls unnoticed would be near impossible. They needed another way in.

A pair of rebels had spent weeks befriending a disgruntled fortress cook, plying him with coin and false tales of common cause. That night, the cook waited near a smaller servants’ entrance, ready to let them in quietly. All they had to do was draw the guards away from that back door. Adair’s second-in-command, a sharp-eyed woman named Elira, gave the signal.

In perfect timing, one of the rebel scouts in a nearby hamlet ignited a decoy fire, sending columns of smoke wafting into the night sky. At the same time, a villager sprinted toward the fortress gate, shouting that flames were spreading in the fields. Alarmed guards rushed to investigate, leaving only a skeleton crew inside.

Under cover of the confusion, Adair and a handful of trusted fighters slipped around the fortress’s outer wall. There, in the wan light of a guttering torch, they found the servants’ entrance and, as planned, the nervous cook peeking through the door. “Hurry!” he hissed.

One by one, Adair’s group filed inside, easing the door shut behind them. The corridor smelled of stale ale and unwashed linen. A single torch sconce flickered against damp stone walls. “Down this way,” the cook whispered, pointing to a narrow passage that led deeper into the complex.

They crept through the servants’ quarters, carefully avoiding patrols. Twice, they paused, breath caught in their throats, as footsteps echoed too close. But no alarm was raised. At last, they found themselves near the central courtyard, separated from the armory building by a short, torchlit stretch of open ground.

Outside, more guards bustled about, responding to contradictory orders about the supposed fire. Perfect chaos. Elira glanced at Adair, a faint smile on her lips. This might work.

“We have to move swiftly,” Adair murmured. “In and out before they realize we’re more than a small distraction.”

She nodded. Their plan was simple: Adair’s team would infiltrate the armory, open the main gate from inside, and let the rest of the rebels flood in to secure the weapons. Once armed, they’d sabotage the gates behind them, ensuring a quick escape route. Speed was everything.

Peering around a corner, they timed the guards’ patrols. When the moment was right, Adair darted forward in a low sprint, crossing the open courtyard. The others followed in small groups, each breath tight with fear. The fortress’s inner buildings loomed around them, torches casting jumping shadows. From somewhere nearby came shouts of confusion—evidence that their diversion still held.

Adair reached the armory’s door—a heavy, reinforced slab of oak. On the other side, muffled voices. He signaled to Elira, who produced a set of crude lockpicks. Her hands moved quickly in the flickering light. A click, a soft creak, and the door eased open. They slipped inside.

The interior was dimly lit by a row of lanterns. Racks of swords, pikes, and shields gleamed, the metallic scent mingling with stale air. Two startled guards turned at the intrusion, eyes wide.

“Who—?” one began, but Adair’s dagger met his throat before he could finish. The second guard yelled an alarm, fumbling for his sword. Elira shot him with a quick arrow from her short bow. He crumpled wordlessly.

No time for subtlety now. Adair beckoned his allies. “Secure the doors!” They barred the main entrance from within, keeping out any curious patrols. From the side windows, they could see the fortress gate a short distance away—closed. They needed it open if the main force was to enter.

A half-dozen rebels scattered through the armory, filling sacks with swords, arrows, anything of use. Adair’s heart pounded. If we linger too long, they’ll trap us in here. He motioned to two rebels. “Find the mechanism for the portcullis. Should be through that corridor.”

They left at a run. Elira and others continued stacking weapons near the door. Meanwhile, Adair felt a surge of triumph at the sight of row upon row of pristine blades—enough to outfit hundreds of common folk. But the triumph warred with an undercurrent of dread. We must survive tonight to use them.

Outside, a sudden commotion. A strident voice shouted orders. The fortress was waking to the truth—this was no minor intruder. Grunts and clashing steel echoed. Adair cursed under his breath; the rest of the rebels must be engaging the guards by the gate. We have to move faster.

Just then, the barred door rattled as someone tried to force it open from outside. “In the King’s name, open this door!” demanded a muffled voice. A heavy strike thudded. The wood shuddered, but held.

“Keep them out!” Elira hissed. She grabbed a broken lance, wedged it against the door. More pounding ensued.

A distant crank and a squeal of metal signaled the raising of the portcullis. Through a narrow window, Adair glimpsed the iron grate rising. They did it. Now the main rebel force could pour in. The question was: could they hold the fortress long enough to escape with the armory’s spoils?

He dashed to a side entrance that opened onto a smaller yard. Through cracks in the stone, he caught sight of dark shapes rushing in—rebels, likely, who had seen the portcullis go up. Their ragtag formation spilled into the courtyard, fighting the bewildered fortress garrison.

A guard spotted Adair through the half-open doorway and lunged with a halberd. Adair barely managed to parry with his sword, steel grating. His muscles cried out in protest, but he forced the guard’s weapon aside and struck. The guard dropped with a groan. Another memory of the palace flashed: the throne room, the splash of blood across marble floors. He pushed the thought away. Focus.

A rebel wave reached the armory door, hollering for entrance. Elira unbarred a side latch, letting them in. They swarmed around the racks of weapons, eyes alight with hope. “Help secure the perimeter!” Adair barked. “We can’t let them corner us inside.”

Chaos accelerated. Shouts, clanging steel, and thunderous footsteps echoed in every corridor. The King’s men rallied, but the rebel numbers and momentum gave them an early edge. Even so, Adair knew they could not hold the fortress for long. Royal reinforcements would race here soon.

“Take as many weapons as you can carry!” he called. “Move them to the cart—go!”

Outside the armory, someone had commandeered a supply cart. Rebels piled it with crates of swords, arrow bundles, anything salvageable. The plan: haul it out through the gate, into the forest, and disperse before the fortress guard could reorganize. Adair, panting, joined in defending the cart from a renewed onslaught of soldiers.

A cry tore through the night—Elira had taken a nasty slash across her shoulder. She staggered, trying to keep pressure on the wound. Adair lunged to shield her, crossing blades with a soldier in tarnished mail. He rammed the hilt of his sword into the man’s temple, then slashed his thigh. The soldier collapsed in agony.

“Go, Elira!” he urged, helping her hobble toward the cart. Two rebels quickly assisted, dragging her out of immediate danger.

In the courtyard, the swirling melee thickened. The King’s men, outnumbered and half-armed, fell back again and again, but they fought with the desperation of cornered wolves. A few archers perched on the battlements, loosing arrows down. Rebels scrambled for cover, some falling with lethal shafts in their backs.

Amid the confusion, Adair spotted the fortress commander—an imposing figure in partial plate, brandishing a gleaming longsword. The commander roared, rallying the last defenders to block the gate. The cart, loaded with stolen weapons, couldn’t exit. If they didn’t break that barrier now, the mission would fail.

“Hold the front!” Adair shouted to the rebels manning the cart. “I’ll handle him!”

He charged across the open courtyard, ignoring the risk of arrows. The commander wheeled around, raising the longsword in a guard stance. Their blades met in a furious, ringing clash. Each strike jarred Adair’s arms, shock vibrating through his weary muscles. Memories of the fight with his brother flickered—how he’d barely survived, how he’d lost so much. Not tonight, he swore to himself. I will not lose another family—this family of rebels.

The commander fought with disciplined skill, but the strength behind Adair’s blows carried more than training—he was powered by raw fury at the monarchy’s oppression. Sparks flew in the torchlight. Arrows whizzed past. Other soldiers tried to rush to their commander’s aid, but rebels intercepted them.

Adair managed to slip inside the commander’s guard. With a savage thrust, he drove his sword into a gap beneath the man’s breastplate. The commander staggered, blood staining his surcoat. Struggling, he slumped to his knees. Adair pulled the blade free, panting, and kicked the dying man aside. One more obstacle gone.

The gate was open, the portcullis still raised. Rebels heaved on the cart, pushing it into motion. Soldiers scattered, their lines breaking in the face of the rebels’ unstoppable surge. Adair barked at the others, “Retreat! We have what we need—go, now!”

And with that, they streamed out of the fortress, hauling as much weaponry as they could manage. Flames from the decoy fire lit the distant fields, casting an eerie glow. A handful of rebels stayed behind just long enough to sabotage the gears of the portcullis so it couldn’t drop. By the time the King’s reinforcements arrived, the fortress would be in disarray, its armory ransacked.

Adair ran beside the cart, ensuring stragglers weren’t left behind. Exhaustion gnawed at his limbs, but the sight of so many new weapons fueled him onward. We did it. A jubilant wave rippled through the rebels. Yes, many had died or been wounded, but they had struck another blow—one that would echo throughout the kingdom.

They regrouped in a secluded clearing two miles from the fortress. The cart, hidden among thick pines, held crates bursting with arms. Weary rebels tended their wounds, sharing water skins and scraps of food. Broken spears and spent arrows littered the ground. Elira’s arm was bound with makeshift bandages, but she stood upright, eyes shining with victory.

When Adair approached the cart to inspect their haul, he found the others waiting in hushed anticipation. One of the younger fighters, bruised and breathless, grinned widely. “We did it. By the gods, we really did.”

Adair nodded. “We did,” he agreed. “But this is just the beginning. The King won’t let this go unanswered.”

A grim murmur followed. They all knew that the monarchy would crack down harder now, brand them as terrorists, unleash more troops to scour the land. Yet the rebels did not wilt under that knowledge. If anything, the tension in the air felt electric, an undercurrent of purpose.

Elias, the broad-shouldered youth, stepped forward, face smudged with soot. “What’s next, Adair? We’ve got these weapons—should we divide them among the nearby villages?”

Several rebels chimed in. Others, new recruits, looked on with hopeful eyes. Adair realized in that moment how fully they regarded him as a leader, how hungry they were for guidance. This is bigger than me, he thought with a mixture of pride and trepidation.

He rested a hand on the cart, letting his gaze sweep over the ragtag assembly. They numbered close to a hundred now—farmers, blacksmiths, a handful of former soldiers, and even a few teenage runaways. Their eyes shone with fervor, each life bound by a shared dream: a kingdom freed from tyranny.

“We’ll distribute these weapons among those who’ve pledged to join us,” he said. “Every village that has suffered under the crown—every family who’s lost a loved one—will now have a chance to fight back.” His voice carried across the group, quieter than a shouted rally but steady with conviction.

Elira, cradling her wounded shoulder, nodded from behind him. “We can’t keep hiding forever,” she added. “Eventually, we have to confront the monarchy head-on.”

A hush fell. Many of them had only dared dream of one day breaching the palace walls, toppling the King’s throne. Adair felt the weight of that next step pressing down on him. Images flashed: the King’s sneer, the Queen’s icy eyes, the swirl of marbled corridors soaked in blood. The brother’s anguished face. The sister’s body on the floor. This time, he vowed inwardly, I will not stand alone, and I will not let them stifle the truth of who I am.

Looking around, he saw that same unspoken promise in the rebels’ gaze. He drew a breath, letting the wind ruffle his hair. The moment demanded a bold declaration, a unifying call that would carry them beyond raids to an uprising that could shake the kingdom’s foundations.

He turned toward the flicker of the pine-encircled firelight and raised his voice so all could hear. “We have proven that we can wound the throne. We have seized the King’s gold and stolen his weapons. But to truly free the people, we must do more. We must raise an army—one strong enough to march on the palace itself.”

A ripple of unease and excitement coursed through the rebels. Some exchanged tense glances; others clenched fists in fierce agreement.

Adair continued, “We will not go quietly. We will not let them crush us or starve our families. From this night forward, BELLATORES is more than a band of outlaws. We are the spark of revolution. We will reach out to every village, every city, every person who has tasted the King’s cruelty. We will arm them and train them. We will give them hope.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. A memory flickered of the day he first arrived, half-dead on a peasant’s shore, rescued by strangers who asked nothing of his past. Now, he stood at the edge of something far greater—an insurrection that might swallow the entire kingdom. Fear pressed at the edges of his mind, but he forced it aside.

“Let the King tremble,” he declared, voice echoing amid the tall pines. “We call on all who’ve suffered, all who wish to break free from tyranny. Join us. Stand with us. We will not wait for the monarchy to change. We will topple it ourselves. Fight with us—fight for those who can’t fight, fight for what was stolen. The palace walls will not stand forever.”

Silence followed for a heartbeat, as if the forest itself listened. Then, one by one, voices rose in a ragged cheer, fists punching the air. Flames from the makeshift fire danced in the night, illuminating faces alight with resolve. Some called out slogans against the King; others wept openly with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

Adair felt a tremor run through him—a sensation of inevitability. This was the course he had chosen. There would be more blood, more pain. But perhaps, at the end of it, the land would be free of the monarchy’s iron grip. Perhaps the wounds of the past could begin to mend.

As the rebels cheered, Elira stepped beside him, her expression both solemn and proud. “Here begins the reckoning,” she murmured. “There’s no going back.”

He nodded, eyes set on the distant horizon. “No going back,” he agreed.

Thus, under the muted starlight, amid the musk of pine and the spoils of their daring raid, BELLATORES emerged as a force to be reckoned with—a cry for revolution echoing across the land. And in Adair’s heart, the thunder of that call to arms drowned out the last echoes of the palace’s torments.

Cold wind whipped across the sprawling fields outside the capital city. Storm clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the pale sun and casting the landscape into a hush of tense anticipation. At the heart of it all stood Adair’s growing army—a sea of peasants, workers, ex-soldiers, and villagers who had rallied under the banner of BELLATORES. Their makeshift camp sprawled across the muddy terrain, rows of tents interspersed with weapon racks and cooking fires, as if a new town had sprung up overnight.

The city walls—tall, ancient, and fortified—rose in the near distance, surmounted by banners of the royal crest. Beyond those walls lay the palace where the King and Queen still clung to power, ignorant or dismissive of the tidal wave of fury about to crash upon them. For too long, the monarchy’s demands had drained the lifeblood of common folk. For too long, peasants had been told to work, to obey, to die nameless under harsh taxes and stricter punishments. But no longer.

A muffled drumbeat rumbled through the wind, low and resonant. Somewhere in the ranks of rebels, a chant rose in time with the drums:

“Freedom! Freedom!”

It started as a low murmur, then escalated into a roar that pulsed across the camp. Beneath the chant, the heavy percussion hammered in steady, bone-rattling beats. Some voices added rough snatches of a new rallying cry, half sung and half shouted:

“Eat, Sleep, Work, Die—

Eat, Sleep, Work, Die—

You want my labor—

My labor’s not for you!”

Adair stood at the edge of the encampment, gaze fixed on the city walls. The winter sky pressed down, mirroring the heaviness in his chest. He wore simple armor over a padded tunic—cobbled from looted plate and leather straps. A battered sword hung at his side, one that had seen too many battles and drawn more blood than he cared to remember. Tonight, though, that blade would be aimed at the ultimate target: the monarchy’s seat of power.

He inhaled, memories of the fisherman’s hut where he had been rescued surfacing amid the swirl of tension. In his mind, he heard the faint echo of the private tune that had once haunted him. Now, a new melody saturated the air—the rallying cry of workers and peasants, echoing everything from the backbreaking labor the kingdom demanded to the stolen harvests and the punishing taxes. “You want my body / My body’s not for you.” The refrain pounded in time with his pulse, amplified by the rows of drummers placed strategically among the restless crowd.

Elira approached, her shoulder long-healed but bearing the scar of the fortress raid. She bowed her head in greeting. “Scouts say the palace remains locked down,” she reported. “The King has recalled most of his loyal lords. They’re barricaded inside the walls, along with the city guard.”

Adair exhaled, crossing his arms. “We’ve forced their hand.”

“The people inside the city—some have tried to slip out. Rumor spreads that we’re here, that we bring an uprising in the name of freedom.”

A flicker of grim satisfaction crossed his features. “Let the palace quake in fear. Let them see the cost of years of oppression.”

He glanced around at the throngs of rebels, their expressions a patchwork of anger, hope, and desperation. Some wore the rags of field laborers; others brandished stolen or salvaged weapons. In corners of the camp, blacksmiths hammered repairs, laborers hauled crates of arrows, while volunteers served hot broth to those too weary or wounded to stand. Children skittered between tents, half excited by the commotion, half terrified by talk of a final siege. This is more than an army, Adair thought. It’s a new society forming on the ashes of the old.

Near a makeshift platform, a drummer pounded out a rhythm, and again the swelling chant echoed:

“Freedom!

Inhale, Exhale,

Bodies for Sale—”

The lines of the new rebel anthem, forged from the harsh truths of a life spent under tyranny, reverberated across the muddy ground. Adair felt a surge of electricity in his blood. We are unstoppable now. Yet beneath the fervor lurked a gnawing dread of what final confrontation might cost. A memory of his sister’s still body. His brother’s wrath. His parents’ faces—one sneering, the other cold. He had not seen them since the night he fell from the palace tower into the raging sea. They believed him dead…until rumor of the rebel leader reached their ears.

“They’re calling us the voice of the laborers—‘LABORATORES,’” Elira said, following his gaze over the assembled throng. “A fancy word, but it means something to them. The ones who toil, who endure. They see you as one of them, Adair, even if they know nothing of your past.”

He gave a tight nod, heart pounding. “Let them believe what they wish. I stand with them because I know what it means to be suffocated by someone else’s demands.”

Elira laid a hand on his pauldron. “Are you ready? When we breach the city gates, there’ll be no turning back.”

A swirl of wind carried the smell of campfires and wet earth. Adair lifted his chin, recalling the vow he had made. To cut down the monarchy, root and stem. He remembered the old, haunted lines that once swirled in his mind: I am the nightmare you created. If that nightmare was the only way to free the realm, then so be it.

“I’m ready,” he said quietly. “Rouse the captains. Tonight, we march.”

Shortly before midnight, the rebels began their assault. A dense fog crept in from the river, blanketing the fields, muffling footsteps and the clank of armor. Under the cover of darkness, waves of fighters advanced on the city’s main gates. In a coordinated move, smaller units spread out to the rear and side walls, using stolen siege ladders and improvised catapults. The King’s army might have the advantage of stone walls, but BELLATORES had numbers, cunning, and the fury of a people who had suffered too long.

A hush preceded the first strike. Then, in unison, the drummers unleashed a thunderous beat, shaking the night air. A roar went up:

“FREEDOM! FREEDOM!”

Like a spear thrust, the mass of rebels rammed into the gates with a massive battering ram. The wood groaned. Archers perched atop the walls responded with a hail of arrows, but rebels shielded themselves behind makeshift barricades. Another surge of the battering ram. Another. With each impact, the chant grew louder, surging like a heartbeat in Adair’s ears.

Elsewhere, rebel detachments scaled ladders or chipped away at the mortar between stones. Screams and clashes of steel echoed in the fog-shrouded streets as the city guard fought to repel them. But in many quarters, citizens flung open their doors to greet the rebels, offering safe passage or attacking the guards from behind. Years of festering resentment boiled over in chaotic bursts of violence.

At last, the main gates shattered under the relentless pounding, splinters raining down. The rebels flooded in, pushing past the threshold of the once-impenetrable city walls. A tide of bodies surged through the streets, torches lighting the way amid swirling fog. Resistance was fierce, but the rebels’ sheer determination overwhelmed entire garrisons.

On a small rise overlooking the carnage, Adair led a mounted detachment, urging them to secure critical choke points. He spurred his borrowed horse forward, shouting orders to press deeper into the city. Through winding alleys and open plazas they fought, each yard gained through savage skirmishes. All around, the chant persisted, pounding with the force of a living drum:

“You want my body—

My body’s not for you—

You want my labor—

My labor’s not for you—!”

Now, from distant corners, the single word “Freedom!” echoed like a clarion call, carried on the wind. In response, Adair felt the old, familiar strain of the song from his darkest days stirring in the back of his mind, faint as a whisper. Just like that day. He shivered, remembering how that voice had once fueled a rampage in the palace corridors. Am I losing myself again? Or perhaps that furious melody was a harbinger of the final reckoning—Adair’s destiny to finish what he started.

Amid the uproar, Elira galloped up, her face streaked with soot. “The King’s forces are making a stand at the inner walls. We can break through with the catapults, but it’ll take time.”

“Then we buy that time,” Adair said grimly. “Hold off any counterattacks.”

He reined his horse toward the palace’s tallest spires, visible even through the haze—those towers he once knew so intimately. Lightning flashed in his mind’s eye: the memory of his sister’s blood, his brother’s accusing gaze. His lips thinned. Tonight, I face them all.

He spurred the horse forward, urging it along the rubble-strewn streets. A knot of city guards loomed up ahead, brandishing spears. Adair led a surge of rebel fighters to crash into them, steel singing. He parried a thrust, then slashed the guard’s chest. Behind him, peasants wielding axes cut down another. The guard line collapsed.

As the rebels swept onward, more voices joined the tumult, chanting lines from the LABORATORES refrain in an eerie unison:

“Eat, Sleep, Work, Die—

It all feels the same—

Inhale, Exhale, Bodies for Sale—”

A savage chord of empathy and rage bound them together, forging unstoppable momentum. Adair’s heart hammered in time with the drums. The monarchy’s centuries-long reign was crumbling in the face of an uprising fueled by oppression’s breaking point. Yet each step closer to the palace gates stoked the old echo inside him: the song from the day I decided to live. His breath caught. If the final confrontation conjured that terrible lyric again, would it consume him as before?

He banished the thought. No time for doubt. The inner walls must be breached, the palace overtaken. The next hours would decide everything—victory or devastation.

With renewed focus, he spurred onward, shouting to the rebels to form ranks and press ahead. The city teetered on the brink of freedom or utter ruin, and only their resolve to overthrow the King and Queen would tip the scales.

In the heart of the capital city, flames licked at shattered windows, and the roar of battle thundered through the narrow streets. Under flickering torchlight and the eerie glow of distant fires, Adair led his rebels ever closer to the palace gates. Their army had grown even as they fought, with city dwellers throwing off the shackles of fear to join the uprising. The chant continued in waves— “Freedom! Freedom!” —its steady drumbeat echoing against stone walls.

At the palace’s high gates, a final ring of royal guards waited. Clad in polished armor and bristling with pikes, they had fortified the entrance with barricades and a lowered portcullis. Archers took positions atop balconies and towers, arrows raining down upon the rebels who surged forward. The push for the palace had begun in earnest, with siege ladders braced against the outer walls, and catapults lobbing stones at statues and parapets.

Adair stood amid the chaos, shield raised against a volley of arrows. Sweat and grime matted his hair. Around him, the rebels pressed forward, battering at the portcullis with heavy mallets. A swirl of smoke drifted from the burning rooftops behind them. Despite the carnage, the roar of the uprising never let up:

“Eat, Sleep, Work, Die—

Eat, Sleep, Work, Die—

My body’s not for you—

My labor’s not for you!”

Every chord of that new protest hymn seemed to resonate with the pounding in Adair’s head. Yet beneath it, faint as a fever dream, he heard a different refrain—the old melody that had once driven him to bloody rampage. It was whispering again, as if from deep within his memories, dredging up images of marble floors awash with red, and a father’s hateful sneer. It’s coming, he thought. The final reckoning.

With a resounding snap of chains, the rebels managed to haul the portcullis open. A fierce skirmish erupted under the archway, swords clashing in sparks of steel. Archers on the balcony loosed arrows, but more rebels poured in from the side, overwhelming them. Step by bloody step, Adair’s forces advanced into the palace courtyard.

The courtyard was vast—lined with hedges and sculptures, once a testament to royal vanity. Now it was a battlefield. Royal guards in resplendent livery formed defensive ranks near the main doors. Above them, towering spires loomed against the smoke-blackened sky.

Adair dismounted a wounded horse, grimacing at the swirl of commotion. Elira joined him, sword dripping with gore. “We have to breach the inner doors quickly,” she shouted over the din. “If we’re bogged down in this courtyard, reinforcements could trap us.”

He nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “We push through together. Watch the balconies for archers.”

She raised her blade in agreement. The pair led a tight wedge of rebels into the courtyard’s center. Royal pikes bristled ahead, but Adair’s fighters had momentum and fury. The first guard lunged, and Adair blocked, twisting his weapon to strike the man’s unprotected knee. Another guard thrust a spear at Elira; she batted it aside, raking him across the chest.

All around, the clash of metal and the screams of the wounded merged with the relentless chant from the rebels behind them:

“Freedom! Freedom!”

At last, the palace’s great doors came into view, flanked by thick columns. More defenders massed there, determined to protect the monarchy’s inner sanctum. A swirl of movement caught Adair’s eye, and he froze. Parting from the guards was a tall figure clad in ornate armor, a familiar silhouette. His older brother.

Rage and grief constricted Adair’s throat. He remembered that face twisted in heartbreak when their sister had died at Adair’s hand. He remembered the final glimpse of the brother, high on the tower, as Adair plummeted into the sea. We’re bound to finish this.

“Get away, rebels!” the brother roared, sword gleaming in torchlight. The golden emblem on his breastplate marked him as a royal son—no question of his identity. He pointed the blade at Adair, voice thick with loathing. “You. You should be dead.”

For a moment, the flow of battle around them seemed to dim, leaving only the two of them locked in each other’s sights. Adair’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, and that old private tune—the monstrous refrain from days gone by—rose stronger, thudding along with the heavy drums of the peasant chant. Yes, he thought. We end this now.

He stepped forward, sword raised. “You tried to kill me once before. You should have finished the job.” The words emerged cold, but inside, Adair felt a swirl of sorrow—this was his own blood, yet shaped by the same cruelty that had nearly destroyed him.

Snarling, the brother hurled himself forward. Their blades collided with a ringing clash that seemed to slice through the cacophony of the courtyard. Soldiers on both sides paused, forming a wide circle around the two men, uncertain whether to interfere or stand back in awe.

The brother attacked with disciplined, powerful strokes—each blow aimed to kill. Adair countered, fighting with a mix of brawler’s grit and the skill gleaned from countless skirmishes. It was no refined duel. Their swords screamed against one another, sparks flying. A well-timed thrust nicked Adair’s forearm, drawing a dark line of blood. He hissed in pain but pressed on, forcing the brother back with a savage combination of strikes.

“I did nothing but be myself,” Adair snarled, voice raw. “Yet you all tried to bury me in a lie. I bled because of you, because of Father, because of Mother’s blind compliance. I lived, brother—and this kingdom will change.”

“Change?” The brother’s eyes brimmed with bitterness. “Look at you—leading peasants to slaughter. You call that freedom?” He parried a downward slash, twisting his sword in a maneuver that nearly disarmed Adair. “All you’ve done is unleash anarchy! You killed Clarice. You destroyed our family!”

Adair’s grip faltered for an instant at the mention of his dead sister. The brother seized the moment, slamming his pommel into Adair’s ribs. Pain exploded through Adair’s side, nearly toppling him. Gasping, he reeled backward, raising his sword just in time to block a killing blow.

Their blades locked near the hilt, each man straining against the other. Faces inches apart, they glared into each other’s eyes—one consumed by righteous fury, the other by vengeful sorrow. Over the roar of the rebels’ chant, Adair heard that old lyric building, a tempest in his mind:

“I am the nightmare you created…

It’s not my fault you love me…”

Memories of that day when he slaughtered palace guards flickered like lightning—Clarice’s pleading eyes, the swirl of blood on polished floors. The brother’s tears, the horror. There could be no reconciliation. Only one of them would walk away from this.

Summoning a burst of adrenaline, Adair wrenched his sword free and spun low, slicing into the brother’s calf. With a cry, the brother dropped to one knee. Blood spattered across the courtyard stones. Adair hovered a moment, panting, sword raised for the final strike.

The brother tilted his face up, twisted with both fury and heartbreak. “This…this was never right,” he rasped. “All because you couldn’t accept your place.”

Adair clenched his jaw, tears threatening to blur his vision. “No. All because you refused to see me for who I am.”

Then, with a raw shout, he plunged his sword down. The blade bit deep into the brother’s chest, cracking through armor. The older sibling’s eyes went wide in a silent gasp. Adair yanked the sword free, watching as the brother sagged to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

All around, the courtyard seemed to hold its breath. Rebels and royal guards alike stared, some in horror, others in mute awe. Adair swayed, breathing raggedly, stunned by what he’d done—again. Yet this time, I will not fall. The old melody in his head reached a crescendo, swirling with the “Freedom!” chants around him, blending into a single, deafening roar.

The moment passed in a blink. The roar of the rebels returned, resuming their push toward the palace doors. Adair bent down, pressing trembling fingers to his brother’s cooling cheek. It’s over. Another piece of his family, lost to the kingdom’s brutality.

Rising with unsteady steps, he turned to face the still-barricaded entrance. Guards there, seeing their champion fall, faltered. The rebels, led by Elira, charged. Splintered wood flew as the barricade was torn apart. In the distance, the King’s standard flew from a high tower—a final bastion of royal arrogance.

Adair tasted salt tears on his lips, but his eyes held no softness now. Next are Father and Mother. The old refrain from his nightmares whispered in a ghastly harmony with the peasants’ defiant chant. He would finish what he started, no matter the cost.

“Push on!” he roared, raising his sword for all to see. “The palace is ours!”

With a collective cry, the rebels surged inside. The revolution swept forward like a flood, unstoppable and vengeful, as Adair stepped over his brother’s body and walked into the gilded halls that had once been his prison.

A heavy hush clung to the palace corridors, broken only by distant shouts and the thunder of rebel boots on polished floors. Statues of past monarchs loomed in the torchlight, their stone faces gazing down with cold detachment at the tide of insurgents that now swept through these hallowed halls. Beyond shattered windows, the city burned, the sky suffused with the glow of fires and streaks of dawn’s first gray.

Adair strode at the head of a small cadre of rebels, their steps echoing on the marble. Blood smeared his blade, and his breathing was ragged from the brutal fight in the courtyard. With each step, a strange layering of sound filled his ears: the new anthem of the workers and peasants chanting “Freedom! Freedom!” somewhere below, and a distant echo of that private, haunting melody that had once driven him into a frenzy. It whispered at the edges of his mind, growing louder the deeper he ventured into the palace.

Archways led to grand salons and ballrooms, once sites of lavish feasts. Now they were strewn with debris and bodies. Panicked courtiers had fled or been cut down by the rebels’ unstoppable advance. Servants in ragged livery cowered in corners, uncertain whether to rejoice at the monarchy’s downfall or fear the vengeance of those who had been wronged.

At length, Adair reached the gilded double doors that opened into the throne room. The place he had hated more than any other. His heart pounded, a fierce swirl of anticipation and dread. He had dreamed of this moment—approaching the seat of royal power—yet the nightmares of the past clung to him. His brother’s blood was still wet on his hands. His sister’s final breath replayed behind his eyes.

Elira and a few others caught up with him, faces drawn. “We’ve driven back most of the resistance,” she reported softly. “Only a handful of guards remain near the throne. The King and Queen are inside.”

Adair nodded once, tight-lipped. He could almost feel the presence of his parents beyond that door—two forces who had tried to mold him into something he was not, who had turned a blind eye to every cry of protest, who had refused to see him as a son. Not a princess. Never a princess.

Summoning a deep breath, he shoved open the double doors.

Columns soared to a vaulted ceiling, lined with stained-glass windows that once cast resplendent light on proud ceremonies. Now, flickering torches threw dancing shadows across the marble floor slick with spilled blood and overturned benches. Panic clung to every surface, thick as incense smoke.

At the far end of the hall, the King and Queen stood on the dais before twin thrones, their features contorted with desperation. A handful of loyal guards barricaded the steps, pikes at the ready. The King’s regal attire was spattered with grime, his face creased with disbelief at the audacity of the rebellion. The Queen hovered a step behind him, trembling in a fury mixed with terror.

Adair advanced, footsteps ringing. Elira and a small band of rebels followed, weapons drawn. One last bastion of monarchy separated them from final victory.

The King’s voice boomed, though it shook with anger. “How dare you desecrate these halls? You—traitor—filth!”

He recognized Adair, of course. In that moment, the illusions of a docile princess cracked beyond repair, laid bare by the battered man standing before him. The King’s eyes flickered from recognition to revulsion. “I should have known you’d crawl back from the depths, cowering snake.”

Adair’s pulse thundered in his ears. In the background, that old melody flared— it’s not my fault you love me —a twisted refrain that had haunted him since the night he destroyed everything in these very halls. His hand tightened around the sword hilt.

The Queen stepped forward, expression strained. “Daughter,” she whispered, clinging to a final vestige of denial. “End this madness, I beg you. Don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve brought slaughter to our kingdom. You’ve murdered—”

“I am not your daughter.” Adair’s tone cut like a blade. “I am the man you refused to see, the child you tried to silence. This kingdom bleeds because of you, because your tyranny crushed its people beneath your whims.”

The guards at the dais glanced at the King for orders. The King gave a curt nod, and they charged down the steps, pikes leveled. Elira’s rebels met them halfway, steel ringing on steel. Adair sidestepped a thrust, slashing with lethal precision, guided by fury and a lifetime’s worth of secret sword practice. In moments, the guards lay sprawled on the marble, their blood seeping across intricate mosaics.

The King, spluttering in rage, reached for a ceremonial sword that had been displayed by his throne. He gripped it clumsily, face contorted. “You think you can rule this land?” he spat, voice cracking with both terror and hate. “You are nothing but a failed experiment—a twisted creature.”

Adair advanced, silent. He could taste the tension in the air, a final confrontation that had always been inevitable. The old tune in his head thundered, merging with the rebel chants seeping through the distant walls. He was consumed by it, every sense sharpened to a cruel edge.

“You made me a monster,” he said quietly. “Now face the monster you created.”

With a roar, the King lunged, swinging the ornate sword in a wide arc. The blow was heavy but unskilled, fueled by blind rage. Adair parried easily, knocking the King’s blade aside. He delivered a punishing kick to the King’s abdomen, sending him sprawling to the floor. The Queen shrieked, stepping back in horror.

Elira and the other rebels watched from the periphery, ensuring no one else interfered. For a long moment, the King lay dazed, disbelieving that this child he had despised could defeat him so handily. “Y-you—” he coughed, voice trembling.

Adair ground the heel of his boot into the King’s wrist, forcing him to release the sword. The King groaned, face twisted in agony. The Queen tried to rush forward but stumbled, tears streaking her pale cheeks. “Please,” she whispered, gaze darting between Adair and the King. “Show mercy. We can’t lose everything. W-we can still fix—”

He turned a cold glare on his mother. Mercy? Had they shown him any, year after humiliating year, forcing him into gowns and lies? Had they shown mercy to the peasants who starved under their taxes? To Clarice, who died in these halls, entangled in the monarchy’s web of cruelty?

No. Mercy was gone. Adair grabbed the Queen by the hair, ignoring her shriek of terror. His sword glinted in the torchlight. In one swift motion, he slashed across her throat. Blood spattered the dais steps, and she collapsed with a strangled cry. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the King’s ragged gasp.

A final, rasping snarl rose from the King. “You worthless demon—”

Adair pivoted, sword raised high, and brought it down with lethal force. The blade bit into the King’s neck, separating his head with a sickening crunch. For an instant, the entire throne room seemed frozen, as though the palace itself recoiled in horror. Then the King’s body slumped, blood pooling in a crimson tide.

Gasping, Adair stepped back. His heart hammered, and the swirl of the old melody in his mind reached a fever pitch, colliding with the rebel anthems echoing from beyond the broken doors. He heard the hush of the hall, saw the stunned looks on Elira and the other rebels. The monarchy’s rulers lay dead at his feet, the final act of a lifetime’s torment.

With unsteady hands, he bent and seized the King’s crown—an ornate circlet of gold and rubies. It was heavier than he’d imagined. Slowly, with trembling poise, he placed it upon his own head, heedless of the blood splattering his armor.

Elira took a tentative step forward, voice hushed. “You’ve…ended them.”

Adair turned, eyes distant, as if the magnitude of it all had yet to sink in. He ascended the dais steps and lowered himself onto the grand throne. The carved wood pressed against his back, reminding him of the rigid posture once forced upon him in smaller chairs, back when he was a “princess.” Now, there was no one to correct his posture or hush his words. He was King—but at a terrible cost.

In the hush, one of the rebels whispered, “The tyrants are dead.”

A beat passed, heavy with finality. Another rebel, older and still clutching a battered pike, stepped forward, voice wavering: “Long live the King?”

A murmur rippled through the onlookers, uncertain and awestruck. The monarchy they had reviled lay decapitated at their feet. Yet they still craved leadership, structure, an end to the cycle of oppression. And Adair, the man who had sparked rebellion, now bore the crown.

He fixed his gaze on the horrific tableau before him: the wide-eyed, horrified face of his mother, locked in death, and the twisted, furious expression frozen on his father’s severed head. The two objects of his lifelong torment lay in silent testimony to his rage. Outside, distant cheers or wails reverberated as more rebels flooded the palace.

Closing his eyes, he heard a child’s soft singing—a faint echo of the voice he once had, layered beneath the chanting. The same tune that had haunted him, twisted from the beginning, still whispered in his mind, as if mocking the final outcome:

It’s not my fault you love me…

’Cause I’m not your girl…

You’re no hero…

The new king opened his eyes, gaze dark and impenetrable. The hush extended through the throne room, every rebel soldier waiting, unsure whether to cheer or tremble. His face was grim, spattered with blood, and he wore the crown like a conqueror forced into the very role he had once despised.

He lifted his chin. “The tyrants are dead,” he declared, voice resonating in the cavernous hall. A final hush, then an echoing statement from those around him:

“Long live the King.”

The words reverberated, sealing the monarchy’s transformation in a single breath. Adair stared out at the hall. The cost was incalculable—siblings slain, parents beheaded, blood saturating the floor that once mocked him. Am I free? He could not tell. Only the hush answered, broken by the faint, childlike echo still singing in his head.

As dawn’s light crept through the shattered windows, casting an eerie glow on the new King’s face, Adair remained unmoving, sword across his knees, father’s and mother’s heads lying at the foot of the throne. The hush broke only with the distant roar of rebels proclaiming victory…and that solitary voice in his mind, still chanting a song that only he could hear.

-- Legend of the Undying King Adair's Ascension, 200 BS