Jeremiah wiped the sweat from his brow, but it did little good. He was drenched, his fine uniform clinging to his back like a second skin, and the air around him was thick with the scent of fear and unwashed bodies. The noble-born of Hassel had gathered in the central fortress like panicked livestock.

  At times, they begged for reassurance; at other times, their voices became a cacophony of demands as they rebelled against the notion that their nobility had lost its worth. They knew the rebels were coming for their heads, and the way they scrambled over each other to seek Count Pollus’s favor was nothing short of pathetic.

  Their stunted, atrophied brains couldn’t grasp that the count himself had no way out of this, that he had no intention of leaving his post. Like a ship captain, the old man would go down with his vessel.

  He ignored them. He had more important concerns.

  His pulse throbbed uncomfortably in his throat, and his breath came shorter than it should have. His body felt wrong—clammy and cold despite the oppressive heat within the fortress. A dull ache throbbed at the base of his skull, worsening when he tried to recall anything about the strange tattoo on his inner wrist. He had no memory of getting it, no idea what it meant, but every time he glanced at it, nausea coiled in his gut like a living thing.

  No time for that. He straightened his back and forced himself to focus.

  Order has to be restored. We’ll get slaughtered if our plans continue to collapse, but if I have to go down, I’d rather go down fighting.

  Of course, Jeremiah did not intend to die here, but he was enough of a realist to know his chances were slim.

  Pollus played his part well, standing tall despite the growing panic. His voice remained steady, and he gave orders to the officers who remained loyal to him—avoiding those who seemed too scared to act. That was one of the main lessons Jeremiah had learned from the man. Only ever bother to issue orders if you know they’ll be followed or if you want an excuse to eliminate rebellious subordinates. But the current situation didn’t allow such power plays.

  Pollus directed troops to hold the planned choke points and positioned mages in key vantage points. Traps had been prepared for the inevitable siege, and if everything went according to plan, they could drain the rebels dry before they ever set foot inside the inner sanctum—if. At this point, no one believed that.

  Jeremiah found solace in the Count’s calm demeanor. The old man surely had a hidden scheme, of that he was sure, though he didn’t know the specifics, as even he had been kept in the dark. Pollus was too composed, too methodical in the face of what should have been a guaranteed defeat. Whatever plan he had, Jeremiah had been tasked with keeping the order, and he would do his duty.

  First, he had to handle the nobles.

  They were huddled together in the main hall in a writhing mass of silk and perfume. Their pompous bravado had been stripped away by the grim reality—something which he couldn’t deny drawing enjoyment from.

  Some shouted at Pollus, demanding he send messengers to negotiate terms. Others clung to one another, whispering about escape or exile. A few had already given up, their faces slack with resignation.

  “Silence!” Jeremiah barked, sharp enough to cut through the chaos.

  They hesitated but did not comply, not that he had expected them to. It wasn’t until he stepped forward, resting his hand purposefully on the hilt of his sword, that they fell silent. Such a show should have seen him thrown in the darkest cell if he wasn’t stripped of his rank and made into a slave. But the rule of law was long gone from Hassel and only might made right.

  “This is our last stand,” he said, meeting the eyes of all those brave enough to face him. “Accept that now. You can either confront it with dignity or bring disgrace to your houses with cowardice.”

  One particularly bloated noble, red-faced and reeking of wine, sneered at him. “Who are you to speak to us like this? A half-blood, a commoner’s brat pretending to be a knight? If we fall, Hetnia falls with us. Do you really think we can escape this alive if things keep going as they are?”

  Jeremiah’s vision blurred. His head throbbed, and his breath came in short gasps. The tattoo on his wrist burned, even though he knew it made no sense.

  He didn’t think. He acted.

  His palm struck the noble’s cheek with a sharp crack. The man hit the wall with a crack, gasping and clutching his bloodied face in shock. The hall descended into stunned silence.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Jeremiah exhaled slowly, his pulse racing. He hadn’t intended to hit the fool. Or maybe he had. He wasn’t certain anymore.

  The fear in their eyes had changed. It was no longer the blind panic of those who believed themselves above war. It was the awareness that the old rules no longer applied. The laws, the hierarchy, and the unbreakable order of the kingdom had begun to disintegrate, leaving them uncertain about who truly held power.

  Jeremiah himself was not sure.

  He met the wide, astonished eyes of the noble he had struck. “I think we’ll live longer if you keep your mouth shut and follow orders."

  No one objected.

  His hands trembled as he turned away. He clenched them into fists, forcing himself to breathe through the inexplicable unease crawling beneath his skin. The memory of his encounter—one he couldn’t quite grasp—drifted just out of reach. He had changed over the past weeks, hardened and sharpened into something both more and less than he had been before. It felt as though something fundamental had been done to him, yet he couldn’t identify what.

  A headache bloomed behind his eyes. He didn’t fight it. He had work to do.

  Jeremiah spent his time barking orders to the remaining security forces. Pollus had placed him in command of them, and he was determined to ensure they held until the very last moment. Whatever power or curse had infiltrated his soul, whatever fate awaited them beyond these walls, it didn’t matter now.

  The enemy was coming.

  And he would be ready.

  He paced along the inner walls of the citadel, annoyed by the clicking of his boots against the cold stone. Distant screams and the clash of steel echoed through the fortress. The enemy was coming faster than expected—too fast. The traps had barely slowed them down, and the enchanted barricades were falling like sandcastles against the tide. He felt it in his bones—the battle for the citadel was already lost.

  His hands twitched at his sides. Sweat gathered on his brow, dampening the edges of his dark hair. He didn’t like this. He wasn’t afraid of fighting, nor of dying. But something gnawed at him, something deep in his marrow. Every fiber of his being screamed that he shouldn’t be here when the walls finally fell.

  Nearby, a group of junior officers cursed and shouted amongst themselves.

  “There are traitors among us!” one barked, his armor scuffed and his face smeared with blood. “How else could they have known where the traps were?”

  “Damn servants, I bet one of them sold us out,” another growled, gripping the hilt of his sword with white-knuckled rage.

  The few remaining servants in the area—a handful of ashen-faced men and women—huddled against the wall, curling in trembling surrender. Most of their peers had been sacrificed in the ritual to power the Blood Wards. These were the scraps that remained, the ones unlucky enough to survive.

  Jeremiah watched the officers close in on them with cold, detached eyes. He wasn’t particularly interested in their suffering, nor did he care to halt the accusations. He knew there were no traitors; he had stood by Count Pollus’s side when the rituals were conducted. The enemy was aware of their defenses because they had been preparing for this moment for months, possibly years. The revolution had been orchestrated with ruthless efficiency. The nobles just refused to see it until it was too late.

  A scream broke through the air as one of the officers dragged a middle-aged servant forward and slammed him against a table. The man let out a pained grunt, but his protests were ignored.

  “Confess!” the officer snarled, drawing a dagger from his belt. “Tell us who sold us out!”

  The servant whimpered, shaking his head in wide-eyed terror. Jeremiah sighed. He turned away, letting them do as they pleased. They needed a scapegoat, and if that would help them fight a little harder, so be it.

  His fingers brushed against his inner wrist, tracing the edge of his tattoo. The ink burned against his skin. He had been feeling it ever since the Blood Wards collapsed—a dull throb that refused to fade. He clenched his fist. What the hell was happening to him?

  A boom shook the walls, and the torches flickered wildly as the ground trembled. Jeremiah staggered, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself. Outside, shouts rose in alarm. The enemy had breached the gates.

  He rushed to the nearest arrow slit and peered down into the main courtyard. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

  The revolutionary forces surged forward like a tidal wave. The enchanted iron gates had been melted clean off their hinges, leaving a gaping wound in the citadel’s defenses. Golden light still crackled in the air, residual energy from whatever ungodly power had been unleashed.

  And at the forefront of the charge stood him.

  The great traitor. The rebel. The Hero.

  Dyeus, the sacred sword, gleamed with an intensity that made Jeremiah’s eyes water. Each swing of the blade released arcs of purifying light, cutting through the last remnants of resistance as if they were nothing. Surrounding Weiss, his soldiers moved with uncanny coordination, so swiftly that it was hard to believe they were mere mortals. Every strike landed with perfect precision, and every defense remained impenetrable.

  It was as if he were leading an army of Champions. That was impossible, and yet it was happening.

  The sight made Jeremiah’s blood run cold. This wasn’t just a rebellion anymore. It was something else. Something greater. Something beyond the realm of men.

  Another explosion rocked the fortress, and Jeremiah barely had time to throw himself against the wall before chunks of stone came crashing down. The officers and soldiers behind him scrambled for cover, their shouts lost in the chaos. Dust filled the air, choking his lungs as he pushed himself upright.

  Through the dust, he saw a blinding column of silver energy pierce the sky. The remaining mages within the citadel had unleashed their final, desperate spell—a war spell, something powerful enough to turn the tide of battle if it struck true.

  [King’s Justice.]

  The chant of the mages rose in unison, and the spell came crashing down like the wrath of a vengeful god. Jeremiah barely had time to register it before the world turned white.

  He staggered, blinking back the spots. He felt the ink on his wrist pulse violently, burning as if it were being seared into his very soul. He clutched his arm, gasping, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. The pain was unbearable, his body screaming at him to move, to run, to flee. But his legs wouldn’t obey.

  Through the blinding light, he saw a lone figure stand against the storm.

  Weiss.

  His sword was raised, glowing brighter than the heavens themselves when they Blessed their subjects. And then, he spoke a single word.

  [Smite.]

  The light exploded outward, engulfing everything in its path. The citadel, the mages, the soldiers, even the very air itself—it all disappeared in a wave of divine fury.

  Jeremiah’s world shattered. He felt himself fall, felt the ground disappear beneath him. There was no pain, no sound, no sensation beyond the inferno of power that consumed everything around him.

  And as his consciousness faded, the last thing he felt was the tattoo on his wrist unfurling and coming to life.