This was the first town I'd encountered so far in the Northern Territory—Blackwell Keep. I remembered it well.
Yet now, the square felt wrong. There were way too many guards outnumbering the villagers.
In fact, guards flanked every corner, backs straight as blades, eyes like polished stone as they tracked each villager’s movements. Shadows seemed to cling to them, darkening whatever space they occupied.
But it was the bulletin in the center of the square that drew me forward.
What I saw there turned my blood to ice.
A map of villages marked in red. "Cleansed," the legend explained. I found my hometown of Eldenvale instantly—a crimson stain among dozens. I traced the outline with my fingertip, the paper rough against my skin.
I stepped back, jaw tight.
My parents.
The thought of them lodged in my throat like a stone.
There's nothing you can do for them now, Guin, I thought and turned away from the board, heading toward The Wyrm and Whetstone.
Yes, there is something I can do,I thought back.Avenge their deaths on the fucking murderer who killed them.
Almost in response, a ruckus started down the street. I tied Shade to a hitching post just outside the tavern and then turned in the direction of the chaos. Already, a crowd was forming.
I pushed through the crowd, feeling its anxious energy wrapping around me. The villagers had gathered around a makeshift platform in the center of Blackwell Keep. Standing around the platform were a handful of the King's Guard.
As I watched, a guard broke through the crowd, pulling with him a lone figure whose hands were bound. The prisoner's clothes were ragged, stained with mud and sweat, but his stance was unyielding. His eyes blazed with defiance, and something in his expression made me swallow hard.
The chief guard, resplendent in gold and red armor, stepped forward. His voice carried over the hushed crowd like a pronouncement from the heavens. “Let it be known: it is not magic that damns you, but disloyalty to the crown.” Then he faced the growing crowd. "You see before you a member of the rebel movement. This man is an enemy of the crown."
A murmur rippled through the onlookers, some nodding, others paling at the words intended to chill the bone.
The rebel raised his head, catching my gaze. The look in his eyes spoke of things unsaid—a plea, a message, a challenge. It felt like cold steel against my heart, but I couldn’t turn away.
"Fear, not loyalty, holds you in chains!" he shouted to the audience, his voice hoarse—no doubt from days of captivity yet still carrying the fierce conviction of a man who believed in his cause. "You are the true lifeblood of this land—farmers, blacksmiths, mothers, fathers—not the nobles who feast while you starve!"
The guard's gauntleted hand clamped down on the rebel's shoulder as he yanked the man forward. The prisoner stumbled, his bound hands making it impossible to catch his balance, but he managed to stay upright through sheer determination. The chains around his wrists clinked in the sudden silence that had fallen over the crowd, each metallic note seeming to echo off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings like a death knell.
"Rise up and know what freedom tastes like! Cast off the shackles of this tyrant's reign!" The passion in his voice made something twist painfully in my chest, a recognition of the same fire that burned in my own heart.
The guard’s brows furrowed, displeasure creasing his face. He stepped forward, and when he raised his arm, the meaning was clear. The rebel's chance to speak ended there.
I felt the heat of raw magic spiraling beneath my skin, turbulent and eager for release. The power coiled and twisted within me, responding to the injustice unfolding before me. Water magic thrummed through every fiber of my being—I could sense the moisture in the air, the sweat beading on the executioner's brow, even the tears threatening to spill from the eyes of those who dared to care. How easily I could turn that moisture to ice, freeze the blood in the guard's veins, or summon a mist so thick it would provide the perfect cover for this brave soul's escape.
The temptation was overwhelming, a siren's call that promised swift justice and an end to this terrible spectacle. My magic yearned to answer the rebel's cry for freedom, to be the instrument that shattered his chains and struck down his oppressors. But I forced it down, wrestling with the power that threatened to burst from me like water through a cracking dam. I had to. No matter how my soul screamed in protest, no matter how every instinct demanded I act, I couldn't risk discovery. I couldn't risk the chance to destroy Arthur's kingdom from the inside out.
My heart ached with the weight of my own silence. The familiar burn of shame spread through my chest as I stood there, just another face in the crowd, complicit in my inaction. Revealing myself here might save this one man, but it would doom a whole movement—it would destroy any chance I had ofcompleting my mission, of getting close enough to Arthur to end his reign permanently.
So, I simply turned away and pushed through the throng of onlookers, heading back for the tavern. I knew what would happen next, and because there was nothing I could do about it, I wouldn't stay to watch. Whether they hanged him or burned him at the pyre, the end result was the same. He'd acted out against the king, and he would die for it.
I sighed as I faced The Wyrm and Whetstone. The tavern stood like a memory—once filled with warmth, now hollowed by despair. I approached the weathered door as the sounds of the prisoner's cries were suddenly silenced. I was only too happy to close the heavy oak door against it.
The tavern air hit me in waves—ale and roasted meat layered over sweat and wood smoke. Candles flickered atop a rusted chandelier, while the floorboards beneath my boots complained with age, worn smooth where countless feet had traveled.
Eyes turned to face me. Watching. Judging.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. This wasn't just a tavern. It was theater, and I couldn't afford to miss a line.
The tavern keeper looked up.
