BELLATORES

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.