The morning had dawned humid and warm, with a veil of mist hanging over the waterlogged fields. The air smelled of iron, mud, and a rain that promised to come – the omen of the late summer storms and of autumn approaching like a sleeping beast.
The still fragile alliance of Dante, Lucien, and Elizaveta marched together, yet each kept their own silence, where the only sounds were those of the fine droplets falling lazily and the boots crushing the damp ground. Every now and then, these sounds mingled with the distant beat of drums and the snorting of horses, weary but disciplined.
Dante walked burdened by responsibility and guilt; he was accompanied by Iago, who kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, occasionally murmuring orders to his engineers; Lucien maintained the rigid bearing of a general who knows he is hated, but respected; and Elizaveta, mounted on her magnificent steed, seemed a glacial vision amid the mist – beautiful, implacable, distant, just like her lieutenants, who never left her side.
Moments later, ahead in the distance, Dragospire began to rise – a scar of black stone against the heavy sky.
The fortress seemed to grow from the very earth itself, as if the ground had been burned to the bone, and from it had sprung a wall of basalt and smoke. Its black walls, slick with rain, shone like tempered iron; in them, the reflection of distant lightning trembled like imprisoned souls.
There was no beauty in Dragospire, nor mercy, nor warmth. It was a heartless fortress, forged to endure, not to welcome. The towers rose austere, sharp-pointed, without banners, without colour, like accusing fingers pointed at the sky. The battlements, worn by time and by wars, were stained with moss and rust – reminders of centuries of blood spilled in their shadows.
All around, the land was barren and stony, of a sickly grey, where not even grass dared to grow. The wind carried the scent of wet stone and burnt coal, bringing with it the echo of ancient battles. Dragospire did not seem made to be conquered, nor even inhabited – but to be feared.
Lucien Darcos dismounted slowly from his horse, his dark cloak clinging to his body from the rain. His eyes, cold and calculating, rested on the fortress walls as one who observes an ancient enemy.
– I will enter first – he said, in a calm but firm tone, the kind of voice that accepted no debate or objection. – Before long, I shall have the gates opened and you will be well received.
No one replied immediately. The wind hissed among the rebels and their muskets, and the raindrops continued to fall like ashes upon the muddy ground.
Elizaveta remained mounted, her gaze fixed on Dragospire, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword. Her steed snorted, uneasy, as if it too sensed the danger.
– What are you planning? – she asked, in a low tone, almost a murmur lost in the wind. – And what if you do not return?
Darcos turned only enough to face her. A faint smile crossed his lips – the kind of smile that never reached the eyes.
– Then you shall know that your trust in me was a mistake.
Dante stepped forward. His face was hardened, but in his eyes there still burned a glimmer of humanity.
– If he trusted us, we must do the same – he said, speaking to Elizaveta, but also to himself. His voice sounded like worn iron: firm, yet cracked. – That is what distinguishes an alliance from a mere truce.
Elizaveta hesitated for a moment. The rain streamed down her hair and into her eyes, masking any emotion. At last, she nodded, though the gesture was more resignation than agreement.
Lucien mounted his horse again and, with a small escort of Ferralian soldiers – men and women worn by hunger and long marches, found along the way and who had joined Dante's rebels – he rode silently towards the gates of Dragospire.
The great doors opened with a deep creak, a sound that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. Darcos entered and did not look back; he knew he could not give any sign of having allies hidden at the edge of the fortress, unless he wished them ill. After that, the doors closed with a dull thud, and the valley plunged once more into silence.
An hour passed; the rain had ceased, but the air remained heavy. Until then, no torch had been lit upon the walls, no sound had come from within. Dante stood still, his gaze fixed upon the gates, as if he could force Lucien to return by the sheer strength of his will.
Elizaveta, a few paces away, spoke in a low voice with Gregor and Dário. Her tone was tense, urgent. Even so, Dante did not take his eyes from the black walls.
Iago approached Dante without him noticing. The sound of his steps was lost in the mud, muffled by the wind sweeping through the valley. When he spoke, his voice seemed to tear the silence like a blunt blade.
– What do we do now, Dante?
Dante did not reply immediately. He did not know what to say. For the first time, he was not at the centre of the action; he had no eyes on what was happening within the fortress. Thousands of souls depended on Lucien Darcos' actions, and yet time did not stop. The silence that lay across the valley stretched thickly, almost alive, as if the very air waited with expectation for Lucien with the rebels.
As Dante prepared to give any answer to Iago, something changed: high up, upon the black battlements, movement was seen. Silhouettes began to line up, slow and ordered, forming a wall of steel and shadow. The glint of muskets flashed in the grey light.
Iago felt his heart tighten and exchanged a quick look with Dante.
– They are… they are forming… – he murmured, showing the same kind of disbelief that Dante himself felt.
At the corner of his eye, Dante saw Elizaveta and her lieutenants mounting, already pulling on the reins of their horses. Her cold eyes scanned the walls, assessing the situation, measuring distances. Her right hand was already rested on the hilt of her sword, ready to give the order that could change everything.
But before she could command her mercenaries to prepare for battle, without warning, a human figure was hurled from the top of the battlements into the void. It fell with a hoarse, brief cry, its body spinning in the air until the rope about its neck halted the descent with a dry snap.
The body swung slowly, the head twisted at an impossible angle. A murmur ran through the rebel ranks.
Before anyone could react, another figure was thrown over – a woman in a torn dress, her wet hair clinging to her face. The sound of the rope stretching was the same as the first: short, final.
Unnoticed by the rebels at first, a third person, also a woman, younger than the previous two, perhaps not yet twenty-five, was thrown in the same manner. Her body, as it fell, seemed lighter, her cry higher – yet, when silence returned, it felt heavier than before.
The wind fell silent. Even the crows hovering above the walls seemed to recoil from that macabre spectacle. Three bodies swung, motionless, hanging from the black battlements – human shadows against the grey sky.
Then came the slow, deep creak of Dragospire's gates opening, exhaling the fortress's cold breath. From within emerged Lucien Darcos, mounted on his horse, his eyes gleaming with a strange light – half madness, half triumph.
He rode slowly towards Dante and Elizaveta, the sound of hooves echoing over the waterlogged ground, until he approached the group.
Darcos dismounted. Mud spattered his high boots. An impossible-to-contain smile tore across his face – wide, uncontrolled, as if blood and death were the sweetest of victories.
– Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the fortress of Dragospire – his voice sounded clear, almost festive, in contrast to the scene around him. – Its soldiers are now Dante's, including the dragonhounds, the speciality of this place.
Without a word, they mounted their horses. The group advanced in silence. The walls rose before them, still wet, but now heavier than when they had arrived.
Shortly before they entered, Dante turned his face to Lucien. His voice was dry, cutting, like a cold blade:
– The people you threw from the wall… who were they?
Lucien glanced at him, his smile still fixed to his face, but now devoid of warmth.
– They were… well… now they are people of no importance.
Dante kept his gaze fixed on him, motionless, until Darcos continued. His tone was almost casual, like one reciting an old, long-forgotten tale:
– The man you see was Vlad Dragomir, brother of Draven Dragomir, the former lord of this fortress. Beside him, the older woman was Katarina, Draven's eldest daughter. The other… poor thing, I heard her sing and play the piano many times. A beautiful voice… Well, that was Anya, his youngest daughter.
– Could they not have been kept alive? – Dante asked. His voice was hoarse and restrained at the telling of Draven's story. – Even if only the daughters? We could have made them prisoners!
Darcos did not answer immediately. He calmed his horse slowly, which seemed displeased by the dampness and the mud, and then turned to Dante, this time with a cold, emotionless smile.
– No.
His answer fell like a blunt blow. There was no hesitation in his voice.
– If they knew you were here – Lucien continued, – or that the man who killed their father and brother stood at the perfect distance for them to take their revenge, do you think they would have kept quiet? Or gone to the dungeons without trying to harm us?
He stepped closer to Dante and stopped before him. His eyes were hard as polished glass.
– Vengeance is a plague, Dante Ferroso. As long as there exists a single member of the Dragomir family, there will always be someone willing to try to reclaim what they lost: the name, the lands, the blood.
He paused and let his gaze wander over the battlements of the fortress they had just taken.
– If there is no one left, there will be no more vengeance.