The city burned around them, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and death. Screams echoed off the stone walls, but Desmond kept his gaze ahead, his hand gripping his youngest brother's shoulder as he pulled him through the winding alley. His other brother followed close, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Desmond thoughts churned as they ran, a prayer rang through his mind, one he recited out of desperation and pain
"O my Dark Queen of endless night, thou purveyor of lost truths, foe to false light, and jewel of the last bastion!
I do beseech thee, grace us once more with thy dread presence, that we might bask in thy glory, thy love, and thy wisdom. For the foe that doth rise against us seeketh naught but our ruin and extinction.
Therefore, I implore thee, in thy boundless mercy, arm us with the means to smite our oppressors. Let them be crushed beneath thy heel, broken before thy faithful. Let their limbs be torn asunder, their faces unrecognized by kin, and their names erased from the annals of history, both in this world and the next.
O Dark Lady, grant me vengeance, grant me peace.
So let thy will be done."
With a strengthen resolve and a hint of vigor seeping back into his body he glanced back, the flicker of his brothers' pale faces all the confirmation he needed to keep moving. But every step felt heavier than the last. His father's death had been quick, cut down by the rebel mob. His mother had fared worse, her defiance answered with brutality. And now it was his responsibility—his burden—to save what remained of their family.
He stopped short at the next corner, drawing his poleaxe as his instincts screamed a warning.
Five soldiers emerged from the smoke, their swords glinting in the dim, hellish light of the burning city. Their leader sneered, pointing his blade. "End of the road, Lordling. Lay down your weapon, and we might spare the boys."
Desmond stepped forward, his armored frame casting an imposing shadow across the cobblestones. "Run," he whispered to his brothers, not looking back. "Run if I fall."
The soldiers advanced, their confidence clear. Desmond raised his poleaxe, settling into a stance of unshakable defiance.
The first soldier lunged, sword raised high. Desmond sidestepped, using the haft of his poleaxe to catch the blade and deflect it. Before the man could recover, he pivoted, the axe's hammer crashing into the soldier's helm. The man crumpled, his armor clanging as it hit the ground.
The second soldier didn't hesitate, thrusting toward his midsection. Desmond turned sharply, using the back spike of his poleaxe to hook the sword and wrench it from the man's grasp. He slammed the sharp spike under the soldier's chin, ending the fight before it could truly begin.
The remaining three faltered, their expressions shifting from confidence to fear.
"Leave," Desmond said, his voice cold and calm. "I will not warn you again."
One tried to flank him, forcing him to retreat a step. The other two came at him together, one swinging high and the other low. Desmond dropped into a crouch, blocking the high blow with the axe's haft while sweeping the other blade aside with the weapon's lower end. With a swift motion, he hooked the nearest soldier's leg, yanking him off balance. A brutal downward strike finished him before the man could scream.
The last soldier turned to flee, panic overtaking him. But Desmond didn't allow retreat. He swept the man's legs out from under him with the poleaxe's haft, then drove the axe down with unrelenting force.
The corridor fell silent except for the crackle of distant flames and the rasp of the Patrician's breaths. He turned to his brothers, their wide eyes staring at him as if he were a specter of vengeance.
"We keep moving," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "We're not safe yet."
Without waiting for their response, he led them forward, his prayer unspoken now but no less fervent.
"Let my resolve be their salvation."
leding his brothers deeper into the city, the flames casting their faces in stark relief. Every step felt heavier, the memories of what they'd lost threatening to pull him under. Their father's stern gaze, his commanding voice ringing out as he gave his last orders. Their mother's sharp wit, her defiance in the face of doom.
He tightened his grip on the poleaxe, his fingers sticky with blood. Not again. He wouldn't lose anyone else.
The alley twisted into a shadowed courtyard, the stone walls blackened by soot. He stopped short, his brothers nearly crashing into his back. A group of rebels stood in their path, laughing as they looted a merchant's cart.
Desmond scanned the scene, his mind racing. Fighting would risk his brothers, and his body was already screaming from the last battle. Instead, he crouched low, pulling his brothers down with him behind a half-collapsed wall. He motioned for silence, his finger pressing to his lips.
They waited.
Every heartbeat felt like an eternity, but eventually, the rebels moved on, their jeers fading into the night. Only then did Desmond stand, pulling his brothers to their feet. He didn't speak, didn't dare to waste breath on words when danger lurked at every turn.
As they crept through the maze of the burning city, he couldn't help but replay the night in his mind. The screams, the flames, the blood. Every failure, every misstep. He had been trained to fight, to lead, but no lesson had prepared him for this—the complete collapse of everything he'd ever known.
Finally, they reached the city's outer wall. The gate ahead was open, left unguarded in the chaos. Beyond it lay the open fields and the dense forest that would shield their escape.
"Go," he said, urging his brothers forward. But they hesitated, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear.
"We're not leaving you," his youngest brother whispered.
"You'll do as I say," Desmond snapped, though his voice softened when he added, "I'll be right behind you."
The boys obeyed, sprinting through the gate and into the night. Desmond lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning the path behind them. No pursuers, not yet. He allowed himself a single breath of relief before following after his brothers.
When they reached the cover of the forest, the youngest collapsed to his knees, sobbing into his hands. The other knelt beside him, wrapping him in a trembling embrace. Desmond stood watch, his poleaxe still in hand, his eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of movement.
It wasn't until he was certain they were alone that he finally let the weight of the night settle on his shoulders. He knelt beside his brothers, his armor creaking with the motion, and placed a hand on each of their heads.
"I failed you tonight," he said quietly, his voice raw. "I failed Father. I failed Mother."
"No, you didn't," the older of the two said, his voice shaking. "We're alive because of you."
Desmond shook his head, his jaw tightening. "We should never have been in this position. I should have been ready for this. For them. For everything."
The forest was silent around them, save for the distant crackle of the city's fires. Desmond looked at his brothers, their faces streaked with soot and tears, and made a vow.
"Never again," he said, his voice low but fierce. "I will never allow something like this to happen to us again. I don't care what it costs, who I have to become, or what I have to do. No one will take from us like this ever again."
The words hung in the air, a promise to the family he had failed and to the brothers who still depended on him. He had learned his lesson in fire and blood, and he would not forget it.
He stood, his poleaxe still gripped tightly in his hand, and gestured for his brothers to rise.
"We keep moving," he said, his tone cold and resolute. "The night isn't over."
And as they vanished into the shadows of the forest, Desmond felt the embers of a new fire burning within him—not one of destruction, but of resolve. Of purpose.