The slaughter was brutal.
Weeks, months, of tornt erupted from the slaves in a frenzy of unrestrained violence. The few dozen guards stood no chance against the mob, which appeared as one living organism as they sward over their victims.
What discipline they had was smothered beneath the rage of hundreds who had lived too long in the dark with nothing but pain, hunger, and hopelessness.
The defenders didn’t just die, they were tortured.
n were dragged to the ground and kicked until their ribs collapsed. Helts were torn off, faces beaten into unrecognizable pulp with bare fists, rocks, tools. One poor bastard scread as three miners pinned him down and one of them drove his broken finger into his eyes, their thumbs twisting in until only blood and jelly remained from the cavity.
Another was surrounded and beaten so savagely that when the slaves moved on, all that remained of him was a twitching sack of broken bone and at that however still twitched.
It wasn’t a battle anymore.
It was an execution, a lynching carried out by a mob that didn’t know when to stop. It was like watching ants tear apart an elephant, limb by limb, and once the job was done unsure what to do with the mountain of at they’d just earned.
And in that mont of terrible release, when their torntors had finally fallen, the slaves lost their sight.
They were free, yes, but freedom was a strange thing to grasp after living in chains for so long.
So they feasted on vengeance instead.
They laughed, howled, wept, stomped on bodies already long dead. So sat on the corpses and beat them again with broken sticks or their own helts, as if afraid the dead might rise and take their whips back.
Marcus watched from the edge, blood dripping from the tip of his shortsword, his jaw clenched.
Every second they spent lost in this blood-haze gave the enemy ti to organize. Soone, sowhere, would hear the alarm. The garrison wouldn’t stay scattered for long.
He needed order. Now.
He climbed onto the nearest cart, raised his sword high into the air, and shouted, his voice echoing like thunder over the carnage.
"Enough!"
No reaction.
"START RALLYING ANYONE YOU SEE—WE PUSH DOWN THE ROAD!"
This ti, the voice cut through.
Several heads turned. Most of them his agents, still bloodied from the fight but more in control, imdiately picked up the call. They began shouting too, herding the elated and breathless slaves like stray cattle.
"Get moving! Grab weapons, grab armor, leave the dead! MOVE!"
Marcus jumped down and began pushing through the mob, swinging the flat of his blade at stunned n still standing over corpses.
"You want to be free? Then act like it! We’re not done! The castle’s still alive, move or die with it!"
The words hit ho.
One by one, the frenzied killers beca sowhat soldiers. The red mist lifted from their eyes.
They began moving. Following. Picking up dropped spears, looting swords, strapping on what bits of armor they could salvage from the fallen.
Marcus didn’t stop. He kept moving, kept shouting, rallying n to his side, eyes already scanning the road deeper into the fortress.
The plan to seize and hold the castle was never truly viable, not with what they had. That much was clear now.
He stood watching the freed slaves cheer and howl as they poured into the lower yard, stepping over broken corpses and spilled blood. It had taken them far too long to defeat a handful of guards. And not cleanly, either. They were slow.
If the garrison managed to regroup, to organize even a fraction of their strength, they would cut through Marcus’s ragtag force like a scythe through brittle stalks. No armor. Poor weapons. No coordination.
Hell they didn’t even have the advantage of number....they would not be able to hold the castle until the prince’s arrival.
So Marcus did what any seasoned commander would do when victory was lost and glory beyond reach.
He shifted the goal.
They could not hold the castle, so they would make it untenable to the enemy too.
He roared, "WE AIM FOR THE WAREHOUSES! BURN THE FOOD AND THEN OUT OF THE CASTLE!"
His n nodded sharply, already knowing the path which they already studied.
They had been living in this place for months. They knew where the grain was kept, the salt pork, the wine, the water barrels. They didn’t need maps. They needed speed.
Ans since they couldn’t hold the fortress, they’d starve the bastards who tried.
Marcus knew it wasn’t the victory the Prince had envisioned. But it was still a blow. A valuable one. Without stores, the garrison wouldn’t withstand a siege.
He just hoped that would be enough to avoid the Prince’s wrath.
A voice broke through the din
"Sir... what about Alator?"
Marcus turned, jaw already tightening.
The voice belonged to Teren, one of his oldest n, which ant four years working for him, he would have made a fine agent if not for how soft he was with his companion.
As now, with everything hanging by a thread, he wanted to talk about the man whose capture had almost ruined the entire mission.
Marcus opened his mouth to snap back—to say "Leave him. It’s his fault we’re in this ss."
But then he looked Teren in the eyes. Really looked.
Marcus hated it. Hated how it made him pause. Hated how that flicker of guilt crept up from sowhere deep and buried in his gut.
Would it really hurt him to try?
Alator hadn’t broken. Despite everything, despite his capture, he hadn’t given them up. If he had, this operation would’ve been over before it began.
Marcus raised his eyes toward the barracks, the squat stone structure near the center of the yard. Smoke curled from the windows. Flas danced behind shattered shutters.
The work of his n.
It took him a mont to realize what he was seeing.
They were setting fires, creating distractions. Even without orders, they’d understood what was happening. They knew the ti had co, and they had acted.
They were buying him ti.
He turned back to Teren, decision made.
"Take fifteen n. Head for the barracks." His voice was low but sharp with command. "If you find him, get him out. If he can’t walk—carry him. If you can’t... give him rcy. Better that than letting him die in chains or under the lash."
Teren nodded once. No hesitation.
But Marcus saw the weight of it settle behind his eyes. Teren and Alator had been close. Brothers-in-arms, practically family. Marcus knew the idea of putting a blade to Alator’s throat would gnaw at Teren for the rest of his life.
And yet, if Marcus hadn’t given the order, Teren would’ve gone anyway.
Better this way. At least now he’d have support.
Marcus placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Don’t die for him. You hear ?"
Teren offered a weak smile as he proceeded to obey. "I’ll try not to, sir."
Marcus fought his smile down as he led the slaves forward.
The road ahead was choked with smoke and the screams of n dying. Shouts echoed through the courtyards mingling with the sharp crackle of flas eating timber.
He didn’t know if the enemy would rally before the fire consud half their stores. Perhaps the officers had already gathered enough n to retake the gate and pen them in like trapped rats. Or perhaps the chaos was too much, the chain of command broken, soldiers scattered and acting without purpose.
Either way, it didn’t matter. The plan was unchanged.
This wasn’t a rescue mission. The slaves were a tool, a ans to cripple the castle from within. If they survived, so much the better. If they didn’t... Marcus would discard them without hesitation. Tools were ant to be used, not preserved. And if the worst ca to pass, he could vanish into the castle’s shadows, blending with the defenders until a better chance to escape presented itself.
All that mattered was to complete the mission.
A sharp glint of steel jerked his focus back to the present. A spearhead lunged for his chest from the side.
Marcus twisted, letting the thrust whistle past his ribs. His hand shot out, clamping around the ashwood shaft. A quick yank forward and twist of his hip sent the soldier stumbling. In the sa breath, Marcus’s short sword punched upward, sliding between the man’s neck and his jawline. Hot blood splattered across Marcus’s sleeve as the soldier’s body crumpled.
Marcus didn’t waste a glance on him. The fight raging ahead was the last real barrier between him and the storerooms.
The defenders were struggling, hemd in by waves of furious, half-ard slaves. The narrow street was a writhing knot of bodies and steel, the ground slick with blood. Marcus saw his opening. He caught the eye of one of his own n, jerking his chin toward the leather-wrapped torch at the man’s belt. Without a word, it was passed to him.
Marcus slid through the chaos like a shadow, ducking under flailing arms and stepping over the fallen. The defenders were too busy fending off the mob to notice the solitary man slipping past.
The storeroom door stood ahead.
Inside, the air was heavy with dead air, along with the sll of grain and gods’ now what. Rows upon rows of wooden racks lined the walls, stacked high with burlap sacks and barrels.
Perfect.
He touched the torch to a low shelf, letting the pitch-soaked rag flare. The fla licked the dry wood eagerly. Marcus moved along the aisle, dragging the torch’s fire across another rack, then another. Soon the sacks began to smolder, their coarse fibers curling and blackening.
When the first burst open, spilling pale grain across the floor, the embers caught like tinder. Smoke thickened. The fire took on a life of its own, racing up the shelves and reaching greedily for the ceiling beams.
Marcus lingered for only a mont, watching the flas spread, a deep satisfaction curling in his chest.
Without food, the fortress was nothing but stone waiting to be abandoned.
He turned and slipped back into the street, the heat of the growing blaze at his back. The storeroom would burn itself to ash; all that remained now was to see if they could escape before the garrison slamd shut their jaws.
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