Charles left the cursed prison behind, each step pounding the memory of blood into his chest. The night air was heavy with smoke, the smell of sweat and decay from the streets, and the lingering tang of the prison itself. Fury carried him like a storm, raw and untamed. Patience, stealth—those belonged to another man. Tonight, he wanted every shadow, every alley, every living thing in the city to know he was coming.
Lanterns flickered in the distance. Two guards rounded the corner of the path, armor clinking, blades catching torchlight. Suspicion danced across their faces, cautious eyes sweeping the dark.
"You there, what are you—" one began.
He never finished. Charles moved faster than thought. One dagger arced upward, slicing beneath the man's chin, flesh tearing with a wet pop as it sank into the soft roof of his mouth. Blood gushed, choking off the scream before it could escape.
The second guard froze, eyes wide, hand darting for his sword. Too slow. Charles twisted, driving his other dagger deep into the man's belly. The wound was cruel, slow, and messy, spilling crimson into the cold stone. The man staggered, clutching at the gash, his scream splitting the night like torn metal. Charles didn't look back. The sound trailed him like a herald, announcing his rage.
The mansion loomed ahead, a shining monolith of white stone, gleaming under the torchlight. Six more guards spilled into the courtyard, drawn by the cries of their comrade.
"You there! Who are you?" one barked, sword half-raised.
Charles answered with steel.
The courtyard erupted into chaos. Blades rang, sparks flying. Charles moved like a storm, twisting, ducking, lunging, stabbing. Three fell before realizing the threat. Steel kissed his skin again and again—scrapes, cuts, bites of pain, burning hot and sharp. Breath came ragged. Footing faltered on wet stone. The guards pressed him, circling, switching positions, relentless in their fury.
He was tiring. And tired men die.
From the shadows, an axe flashed. Bone cracked. A guard screamed as his leg gave way beneath him. The opening was enough. Charles ducked a descending blade, slid beneath it, and drove his dagger into the heart of the man swinging it. The body folded, sliding to the ground like discarded cloth.
The last guard barely had time to turn. Gerart's axe came down, splitting skull, sinking deep. Silence followed—panting, blood, and the metallic tang of iron.
Charles staggered, wiping his blade on a corpse, giving Gerart a look. "Thank you."
Gerart wrenched his axe free, eyes blazing. "Are you mental? I get it—you're angry, remembering your past. But do you want us all dead?"
Charles' gaze swept the courtyard. Bodies lay in pools of shadowed blood. The fires of his fury were only beginning to burn. He didn't answer.
---
Inside the mansion, opulence screamed at him: golden trim, velvet carpets, polished tables, crystal chandeliers reflecting torchlight. But at the center, ugliness ruled.
A young man lay gagged and bound, chest rising in shallow panic. Over him, a broad, red-faced tormentor—wrapped in a cape and padded diaper—snapped a whip across the boy's back, painting red welts across pale skin.
The man spun at the door. "WHO LET YOU IN?!"
Gerart's axe split his spine before another word could form. He crumpled, collapsing over the bound youth.
Charles crouched, slicing ropes. The boy's eyes were wide—panic, confusion, and relief tangled together. Charles met his gaze for only a second.
"If you want to live, stay quiet and out of the way."
No answer came, none was needed. Charles' attention shifted. Gold-plated chairs, polished tables, carved stools—he dragged them to the center, stabbing and snapping until a mound of splintered wood and velvet rose from the carpet.
"Good enough." He grabbed a torch, tossing it onto the heap. Flames roared to life, devouring silk and wood. Shadows danced wildly on gilded walls. The boy shrank back, silent, eyes wide.
"What about the others?" he asked.
Charles' voice was flat, hard. "We can't save everyone. Be glad we saved you. Now move."
Smoke curled toward the ceiling, heat rolling over them. Gerart followed him toward the door, axe ready, ears tuned for any sound beyond the smoke.
---
The fire spread like a living thing, devouring corridors, feeding on polished wood, tapestries, and silk. Smoke poured into corners, choking and blinding, curling like dark serpents. Shouts rang out. Panic erupted—footsteps clanging, screams, servants and guards scrambling with buckets of water. The chaos was perfect. No one noticed two bloodied shadows slipping out the side gate.
Beyond the city wall, in sparse brush near the dunes, the rest of the group waited. Eleven figures huddled with them—battered, thin, bruised in body and spirit. Slaves and captives pulled from the mansion's nightmare.
Some barely stood, eyes hollow yet burning with fragile hope. Three children clung together, silent, wide-eyed. Charles' gut twisted. He could almost see his younger self in their faces, the weight of chains heavy in memory.
"Let's head for camp," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "We'll rest there a while."
The march was quiet, broken only by the shuffle of weary feet and muffled sobs. The dunes rose ahead, pale and endless. By dawn, the first light smeared across the horizon, painting the sky in soft gold and rose.
Syrrien and Oswin were first to meet them. Their eyes widened at the crowd, but neither spoke. Truth was written plainly enough—in wounds, in smoke curling against the skyline.
"Gods…" Oswin muttered, rubbing his face. "You've stirred a hornet's nest."
"Doesn't matter," Charles said. "They're free."
Syrrien's cold gaze softened briefly, then hardened. "We can't stay long. They'll be hunting whoever did this."
Charles nodded. "Two hours' rest. No more. Then we move."
"Where?" Gerart asked.
"To Mosswood village. The elder there will know what to do with them."
The rescued shifted uneasily but did not argue. For the first time in long memory, they had someone to follow.
Charles looked at the three children clinging together. He could not afford to fail them.