The wreckage of the grand chamber reflected the devastation Lelia had tried to ignore. Her mother sat trembling on the cold, desecrated floor, her fine gown torn and smudged with soot. Her voice barely rose above a whisper as she said, "We're alive... but they took everything."
Lelia barely heard her. She was already kneeling beside her father. Count Heilop, once the commanding and proud head of the family, lay slumped against an overturned chest, his breathing shallow and erratic. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, and his unfocused eyes seemed to see something far away.
"Father," Lelia pleaded, shaking him gently. "Can you hear me? Father!"
Her mother, Menia, stumbled over, clutching the remnants of her dignity, her composure cracking under the weight of the night's horrors. "They wanted information," she sobbed, her voice ragged. "About the nobles, the empire... and the resistance."
The word struck Lelia like a blow. The rebellion had never seemed a real threat before—merely a nuisance, the squabble of disorganized slaves too broken to do more than lash out sporadically. But tonight was proof of something far more coordinated, far more dangerous. Lelia's mind raced, recalling the cold, unyielding gaze of the red-eyed knight who had led the attack. His words echoed in her thoughts, not as a threat but as a grim promise.
"We need to move," Lelia said firmly, masking the dread pooling in her stomach. "Mother, we can't stay here. Help me—Father needs to—"
Her words faltered as her father slumped further. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His hand, once so strong and commanding, hung limp and useless.
"Lelia," Menia whispered, her face stricken, "we can't carry him like this. He's too weak."
"We can't leave him!" Lelia snapped, her desperation mounting.
"We'll come back for him," Menia said softly but urgently. "When it's safe. He wouldn't want us to die here."
Lelia's throat tightened, but the logic of her mother's words was undeniable. She rose, gripping her mother's arm as they navigated the chaos of the mansion. Flames crackled in the distance, smoke clawing at their lungs. The air was thick with the cries of servants and the clash of steel as guards fought a losing battle against the insurgents. Every shadow felt alive, every corner a potential trap.
Near a hidden passage behind a tapestry, a familiar figure appeared—Vilad, the family's most loyal guard. Her armor was dented and stained, her left arm cradled against her side as she limped forward. But her eyes burned with determination.
"Lady Lelia," Vilad said through gritted teeth, "we need to leave now. The resistance has overrun the estate. They're executing everyone they can find."
"My father—" Lelia began, her voice shaking.
"I'll send someone back for him," Vilad cut in, her tone brooking no argument. "Right now, my priority is getting you both out of here alive. Do you understand?"
Lelia swallowed hard, nodding. She clung to her mother as Vilad led them through the narrow passage. The distant sounds of the battle outside grew louder with every step, a grim reminder of the destruction they were fleeing.
When they emerged from the passage, the full scale of the devastation hit Lelia like a physical blow. The estate was a warzone. Once-pristine gardens were trampled into mud, their decorative fountains cracked and spilling water uselessly into the dirt. Flames licked hungrily at the mansion's walls, casting flickering shadows over the chaos. Groups of armed slaves moved with purpose, their scavenged weapons gleaming in the firelight.
"Keep your heads down," Vilad ordered. Her own injuries were forgotten as she scanned their surroundings, sword at the ready. "Stick close to me."
Lelia obeyed, though her heart twisted as she looked back at the home that was no longer hers. This was supposed to be her sanctuary, her heritage. Now it was nothing more than a smoldering ruin. The bitter sting of loss burned deeper than the acrid smoke.
As they entered the cover of the dense forest surrounding the estate, Vilad's pace slowed, her injuries catching up to her. She stopped for a moment, leaning heavily against a tree.
"We'll head for the eastern outpost," Vilad said, her breath labored. "It's far enough from the resistance's reach—for now."
Lelia nodded, though her mind was elsewhere. The image of the red-eyed knight haunted her thoughts, his chilling presence more terrifying than the flames that had consumed her home. His precision, his command of the chaos—it all pointed to a far larger and more calculated rebellion than anyone had anticipated.
Questions churned in her mind, each one heavier than the last. What did they truly want? How had they become so organized? And who was that knight?
She clenched her fists, determination hardening her grief into resolve. There would be no answers tonight, only survival. But she swore to herself that this wasn't the end. Not for her family, and not for her.
…
The Cazador camp was a sprawling collection of tents and supply wagons, buzzing with disciplined activity. Soldiers moved with purpose, their hardened expressions betraying none of the chaos they'd left behind at the Heilop estate. The three travelers—Lelia, Vilad, and Menia—were ushered into a secure corner of the camp, away from the main operations. Lelia couldn't shake the hollow feeling in her chest. Her home was burning, her father left behind, and the bloodied remnants of her family's world seemed to collapse further with every passing second.
Through the thin walls of the command tent, Lelia could hear the bark of orders and the preparation of troops. The Cazador soldiers, clad in their dark uniforms, carried weapons unfamiliar to Lelia's sheltered eyes: muskets inlaid with glowing magical runes and shields shaped like hexagons, shimmering faintly with an arcane barrier. These were no ordinary weapons—they were forged for moments like this, for enemies like this.
The camp quieted momentarily as a detachment of three Cazador divisions rode out toward the estate. Their horses were powerful beasts, bred for battle, and their riders exuded grim confidence. The muskets glinted in the moonlight as they disappeared toward the mansion, their shields raised in disciplined unison.
"They're going to surround the insurgents," Vilad explained, her voice steady despite her visible injuries. "They'll flush them out and put an end to this madness."
Lelia nodded but remained silent. Her mother sat beside her, staring into the distance with a vacant expression, her trembling hands gripping the edge of her torn dress.
Minutes passed like hours. Then, from the direction of the estate, faint sounds began to reach the camp—screams, gunfire, and the sharp, unmistakable clash of steel. Lelia's heart pounded in her chest. She strained to see through the trees that obscured their view, but all she could make out was the glow of flames reflecting against the sky.
Suddenly, a sound like a deep rumble echoed across the camp, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Lelia stumbled, her eyes wide as she turned toward the source. The mansion was visible now, silhouetted against the inferno surrounding it. And then, without warning, it exploded.
The blast was deafening, a rolling wave of force and fire that consumed the estate in a blinding flash. For a moment, it was as though time stopped. The screams from the estate ceased, replaced by an eerie, suffocating silence.
Lelia's hand shot to her mouth, her breath hitching. "What just happened?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Vilad didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the mansion—or what remained of it. The once-grand structure was gone, reduced to rubble and smoke. The detachment of Cazador soldiers who had entered the estate moments earlier had been swallowed whole by the explosion.
Out of the haze, figures began to emerge. At first, Lelia thought it might be survivors from the Cazador forces, but as the shapes drew closer, she saw the tattered clothing and hollow eyes of the insurgents. At least a thousand slaves marched from the ruins, their bodies unscathed despite the devastation that had obliterated everything around them.
"How...?" Lelia breathed.
Vilad's knuckles whitened as she gripped her sword. "This wasn't just a rebellion," she muttered. "They were prepared for this. Too prepared."
The insurgents emerged from the thick, acrid smoke with an unsettling grace, their movements so eerily synchronized it was as if they were controlled by a single, unseen force. Step by step, their numbers swelled, dark silhouettes taking shape as more figures poured out of the haze. Their forms were stark against the orange glow of the lingering fires, a grim procession that seemed to defy reason.
No weapons gleamed in their hands; no armor clinked with their stride. Yet their sheer presence sent waves of unease rippling through the Cazador camp like the first tremors of an earthquake. The soldiers, seasoned hunters of the most monstrous creatures, found themselves rooted in place, their grips tightening on the hilts of swords and crossbows. A young recruit, barely past his seventeenth year, clutched his weapon so tightly his knuckles turned white, his breath quickening as though he had forgotten how to exhale.
Eyes darted between comrades, searching for reassurance that never came. Faces once stoic now twisted with disbelief and rising panic. The whispers started low, soft threads of fear woven into the crackling of the dying flames.
"Do you see that? They're unarmed—how are they walking?"
"What are they? They should be dead."
The murmurs gained momentum, spreading like a wildfire across the camp. Each word carried a weight heavier than the last, feeding the suffocating atmosphere of dread.
"How did they survive that explosion?" a grizzled sergeant hissed, his voice trembling with a fear he tried to mask beneath authority. His sharp eyes, accustomed to the gore and chaos of battle, betrayed him now, wide and unblinking as they followed the insurgents' steady approach.
The camp was silent except for the sporadic crack of burning debris and the erratic breathing of soldiers. Each insurgent's step, muffled but deliberate, seemed to echo louder than a war drum in the oppressive quiet. Their faces came into view, pale and expressionless, their eyes like empty wells—bottomless, unfeeling, and unnatural. Those eyes locked onto the soldiers, one by one, and something primal stirred in the hearts of even the bravest among them. It was not the fear of death but something worse—an instinctive, bone-deep terror of the unknown.
A veteran at the front staggered back, his composure fracturing under the weight of the insurgents' silent menace. "They're not human," he whispered hoarsely, his gaze fixed on the approaching figures as if looking away would summon death itself.
Still, the insurgents advanced. Their silence was a weapon more potent than any blade, a force that shattered resolve with every passing second. No rallying cry could be heard, no commands barked to form a defense. The camp was paralyzed, every man and woman trapped in the grip of a fear they could not name, their courage unraveling under the hollow stare of their seemingly invincible foes.
In that moment, the soldiers of the Cazador camp understood something that words could not convey. They were no longer the hunters. They were the prey.
Before anyone could act, a voice barked orders from the command tent. The Cazador Major strode into view, his polished armor glinting even in the dim firelight. His face was grim but resolute as he addressed the gathered soldiers.
"Hold your positions!" he commanded. "This isn't over."
The Major turned to Vilad, who stood at attention despite her injuries. "We've received critical intelligence," he said. "A key figure within the resistance has leaked information. The insurgents are planning to regroup in the Elgee Forest, near the Beetea Road. We'll reorganize and ambush them there."
Vilad nodded, her expression unreadable. "Understood, sir."
The camp burst into activity once more as the soldiers prepared for the next engagement. But Lelia, still reeling from the sight of the mansion's destruction, felt a sinking pit of dread in her stomach. This wasn't a rebellion—it was a movement, calculated and ruthless, with resources and strategies far beyond anything she'd imagined.
"We need to move," Vilad said, her tone gentler now as she turned to Lelia and Menia. "You both need rest. We'll head to a nearby village and regroup there. The Cazadors will handle this."
Lelia hesitated, her eyes lingering on the smoldering remains of her home in the distance. But there was no argument to be made. She took her mother's hand, and together they followed Vilad away from the camp.
The village they found was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos they had fled. The simple wooden buildings were a far cry from the opulence of the Heilop estate, but they offered shelter and, for the moment, safety. Vilad secured lodging in a modest inn, and the three of them huddled together in the cramped room.
Lelia lay awake long after her mother and Vilad had drifted into restless sleep. Her mind was a storm of thoughts, each one darker than the last. The red-eyed knight, the explosion, the unscathed insurgents—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle she couldn't yet assemble.
As dawn broke, a soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. The innkeeper handed her a folded newspaper, his face pale as he muttered something about "terrible times."
Lelia unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the bold headlines:
"The Cazador Forces Put Down a Tremendous Slave Rebellion."
Below it, another headline caught her attention:
"Count Heilop Has Been Evacuated Safely."
Her breath caught. The words offered a sliver of relief, but doubt gnawed at her. What did "safely" mean? Where was he now? Was it even true?
She folded the paper and sat in silence, the weight of the night's events pressing down on her. The rebellion was far from over. This was only the beginning, and Lelia knew that her family—and perhaps the entire empire—was caught in the eye of a storm that showed no sign of passing.