King Robin Amber rode at the head of his army, a sneer of satisfaction curling on his lips as they approached the smoldering ruins of what had once been the rebels' fortress. His forces had breached the walls, but the victory felt hollow. The exhilaration he had anticipated was missing, replaced instead by a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction.
The fortress had been a stubborn thorn in his side, its resistance a source of both amusement and irritation. For months, he had toyed with them, letting them think they had a chance, only to crush their hopes when they least expected it. But now, as he surveyed the remnants of the stronghold, the absence of his "toys" left him feeling cheated.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke, mingling with the sharp bite of winter. The once-proud walls of the fortress were crumbling, their defenses shattered by the relentless assault of his army. Yet, despite the clear signs of battle, the place was eerily quiet. His soldiers were combing through the ruins, but the rebels were nowhere to be found.
Robin dismounted, his boots crunching on the snow-covered ground as he strode toward the breached gate. Alaric, the tax collector who had been instrumental in igniting this little rebellion, trailed behind him, his face a mask of uncertainty. The man was eager to please, but Robin found his presence increasingly tiresome.
"Where are they?" Robin snapped, his voice sharp with annoyance.
Alaric hesitated, searching for the right words. "It seems, Your Grace, that they fled before our final assault. They must have known they couldn't hold out any longer."
Robin's eyes narrowed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Fled? They dared to deny me my victory?"
He clenched his fists, feeling the cold metal of his gauntlets bite into his skin. This was not how it was supposed to go. He had wanted to see the fear in their eyes, to watch as they realized their inevitable doom. But now, they had robbed him of that satisfaction, slipping away like cowards in the night.
His soldiers continued their search, overturning debris and poking through the rubble, but it was clear that the rebels had escaped. The fortress was empty, save for the bodies of those too stubborn or too slow to flee.
Robin's mood darkened as he stalked through the remains of the fortress. He had been looking forward to this moment for so long—the moment when he would finally crush this upstart peasant and his ragtag band of followers. But now, with the fortress empty and his enemies gone, there was nothing left but the bitter taste of disappointment.
"They're probably hiding in the hills, Your Grace," Alaric suggested, desperate to appease the king. "We could send out patrols to hunt them down."
Robin waved a hand dismissively, his patience wearing thin. "Let them run. They won't get far in this weather. The cold will do what my soldiers did not."
But even as he said the words, he knew it wasn't enough. Letting them escape, letting them think they could outrun his wrath, left a sour feeling in his gut. This was supposed to be a spectacle, a reminder to all who dared defy him of the consequences. Instead, it felt like a farce.
His eyes roamed over the village beyond the fortress walls. It was small, insignificant—a cluster of hovels barely worth his notice. But these hovels had been home to the rebels, the place where their defiance had taken root. The thought of leaving it intact, of allowing them any shred of comfort or hope, filled him with a simmering rage.
"No," he said slowly, his voice carrying an edge of malevolence. "No, they won't have anything to come back to."
Alaric glanced at him, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "Your Grace?"
Robin turned to him, his eyes glinting with cold fury. "Burn it. Burn it all to the ground."
Alaric blinked, momentarily taken aback. "But, Your Grace, the village—"
"I said burn it," Robin repeated, his tone brooking no argument. "Leave nothing standing. Let them return to ashes and ruin. Let them see what defiance brings."
There was a moment of silence as Alaric processed the order, and then he nodded quickly, eager to comply. "At once, Your Grace."
Robin watched as Alaric hurried off to relay the command, a twisted smile playing on his lips. If he couldn't have the satisfaction of their capture, he would have the satisfaction of their despair. He would raze their homes, their livelihoods, everything they had fought to protect. And when they returned, broken and defeated, they would find nothing but the charred remains of their rebellion.
The king's soldiers moved swiftly, setting torches to the thatched roofs of the village huts. The dry timber caught quickly, and soon the flames began to spread, devouring the structures with a ferocity that matched Robin's anger. The firelight danced in his eyes, reflecting the cold satisfaction he felt as he watched the village burn.
Smoke billowed into the sky, a thick, black plume that could be seen for miles. The flames crackled and roared, consuming everything in their path. Robin stood at the edge of the village, his arms crossed over his chest, watching as the inferno grew. The heat from the blaze was intense, but he welcomed it, letting it warm the coldness that had settled within him.
This was what defiance earned. This was what happened to those who dared challenge him. He had given them a taste of hope, only to snatch it away in the most brutal way possible. And it was glorious.
"Your Grace," a voice called from behind him.
Robin turned to see one of his captains approaching, the man's face flushed from the heat and exertion. "The village is nearly destroyed. What are your orders?"
Robin considered for a moment, then nodded toward the horizon. "We move on. Leave nothing behind but ashes. Let them try to rebuild from this."
The captain nodded and hurried off to relay the command. Robin remained where he was, watching as the village was reduced to cinders. The flames were beginning to die down now, but the damage was done. There would be nothing left for the rebels to return to—no shelter, no food, no hope.
It wasn't the victory he had wanted, but it would have to suffice. He had been denied the pleasure of breaking them in person, but at least he could take solace in the knowledge that their spirits would be broken when they returned to this devastation.
Robin mounted his horse, taking one last look at the smoldering ruins before turning away. The fire had done its work, and now it was time to move on. He would let them run, let them think they had escaped. But he would be waiting, watching, ready to strike when they least expected it.
As he rode away from the burning village, his mind was already turning to the next phase of his plan. This was not the end—it was only the beginning. He would give them time to gather their strength, to rebuild their hopes, and then he would crush them all over again. The thought brought a smile to his lips, a dark satisfaction that settled deep within his bones.
They would learn that no one defied King Robin Amber and lived to tell the tale.