The full moon, like a giant iris, peers into the stable.

Shafts of its silver light soaks the bodies of those caught in this confrontation. The nearby horses neigh and wail in fear, spooked by the thunderous gunshot. As they rattle and shake their box stalls, Fionnlagh and Elena step out from behind the corner of the L-shaped barn, leaving behind Raphael and Clara.

Clara hides behind the corner and reloads her musket. However, her hands are unsteady, frantically ripping a cartridge and pouring gunpowder into the pan. Some of the powder spills over the gun. Raphael watches her, clearly panicked by the idea of not only fighting, but fighting the Empyreal Guard.

Sergius, the Empyreal Guard, wastes not a breath on words. Grasping his colossal sword with both hands, he charges at Elena and Fionnlagh. He takes one heavy step forward, then unleashes his enormous sword in a wide arc. Elena briskly dodges the blow, but Fionnlagh raises his longsword up to block it. Backed by his Solasúian strength, he ceases the motion of Sergius’s strike. The impact of the blow, however, pushes him back by quite a few feet.

Cowering behind the wall, Raphael attempts to corral himself. His eyes flash as he watches Clara shift her musket into full cock, ready to fire at any moment. Raphael gulps, feeling his Adam’s apple motion up and down, like something is stuck in his throat.

Is it his courage?

His bravery?

He bears witness to Fionnlagh being blown back by the sheer power of Sergius’s strike, tumbling off-balance and into the dirt below. He then watches as Elena squares off against the giant, weaving her body around a horizontal slash. Raphael fastens onto the longsword at his hip. It is okay to be scared, but it mustn’t cripple him, paralyze him. He breathes deeply. He then sprints out into the fray, surprising Sergius. Another one.

Together with Fionnlagh and Elena, Raphael assaults Sergius with a barrage of attacks. Sergius coils up behind his massive heap of steel to defend against each attack. No matter what they did or tried, they simply can’t get past his massive blade.

But Fionnlagh, having heard the familiar sound of a gun shift full cock, then calls, “Clara!”

Hearing him call her name, Clara soaks in a deep breath. She then pulls around from behind the corner, she readies her musket. But her hands—slick with sweat—quiver and shake as she aims the rifle, still unable to rein herself in. But regardless of her condition, she takes aim and fires.

The roar of the gun sunders across the airwaves, frightening the horse nearby once more. An explosion of blood erupts from Sergius’s right shoulder, scattering droplets upon his arming doublet. Through the smoke, Clara ganders upon her handiwork, yet her eyes begin to widen, the giant soldier recovering from the shot if it were the bite of a flea.

Shit.

“Shit, shit, fuck,” she groans under her breath, ripping open a cartridge with her teeth. “C’mon, c’mon!”

A devious cackle penetrates the soundscape as the resisters attempt mightily to break through Sergius’s impregnable defense. The nobleman Decimus Ishvara has witnessed this fight through its entirety, yet he laughs at the Descendants’ attempt to kill his bastard. As Clara switches her musket to full cock, a shadow long and tall looms over her. Decimus approaches the distracted rebel, smacking away her musket and lifting her off of the ground by her throat.

When Fionnlagh hears the gun go full cock, he turns to Clara as if ready to issue a command. However, before him, reflecting off of his eyes, is a nightmarish predicament. His legs then spring into action, dashing as fast as he can to save her.

But it is too late.

Too late.

The deafening sound of Decimus’s laughter is suddenly muted under a grotesque snap and pop. Fionnlagh’s eyes rise when he hears that stomach-turning noise. The ancient nobleman then coldly discards Clara like trash, and her body lifelessly tumbles in the dirt. All of the Descendants cease their attacking and stare back at the limp corpse of their now former comrade, mortified. Fionnlagh collapses onto his knees, tears wetting his eyes. They trickle down his face and drip purely upon his gambeson.

“Is this truly the pinnacle of the Descendants?” Decimus rubs salt in the wound, wearing a pompous smirk. “You can’t even best my bastard.”

“You…!” Fionnlagh seethes.

His eyes flicker with rage. He vaults to his feet, screaming as loudly as his lungs will give as he charges at the ancient nobleman. His fingers wrap around his longsword, wildly assaulting Decimus. But Decimus, with his hands together behind his back, easily bobs and weaves around each of Fionnlagh’s violent attacks.

Raphael and Elena face Sergius, who deflects each of their blows with his gargantuan blade. Sergius then thrusts his right leg forward, his boot colliding with the body of Elena. The blow so powerful that it catapults Elena into the air. She sails through the atmosphere, her body crashing vigorously into the metal gate of one of the box stalls.

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With Elena temporarily removed from the fight, it is just Raphael versus Sergius now. The two go blow-for-blow, until the weight of Sergius’s blade comes down upon Raphael. The young man steps out of the way, watching the blade drive into the earth. With the sword jammed into the dirt, Raphael propels himself up it. He precariously balances himself along the large edge of the sword, then pointing his blade at Sergius’s throat.

“I’ve got you,” says Raphael. “Now surrender!”

“You resisters, my father—all of you people talk too much,” Sergius replies. “Let me show how to really use your mouth!”

Raphael’s jaw dangles when he witnesses Sergius’s resolve. The empyreal guard bares his teeth and bites down on Raphael’s sword. The edge of the sword cuts into Sergius’s gums, causing blood to rush down his chin. Sergius then pushes the handle of his sword up and forwards. The move sends both himself and Raphael tumbling into the dirt.

Landing on top of Raphael, Sergius unloads a flurry of swift punches to Raphael’s face. Raphael does his best to defend himself, but his defense is no match for the brutal assault lain upon him. The beatdown cracks against Raphael’s nose, breaking it. Blood begins to ooze from his nostril, getting a good taste of its irony flavor.

There is then a sensation vibrating the cold, hard soil.

Thump, thump, thump…

It grows stronger.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!

Sergius responds to this stomping in the blink of an eye, withdrawing his sword from the ground and standing up. Elena comes flying in with a haymaker with her left hand. The metal fist collides with the strong flat of Sergius’s sword—nigh of where the bullet is lodged—and the air rings with a heavy clang.

Raphael slowly rises from the ground. He snaps out of his weariness and charges the lone Empyreal Guard. The massive sword in Sergius’s hand then impacts the comparably smaller strip of metal that is Elena’s longsword. The blow, backed by Sergius’s immense strength, rips through the sword as if it’s made of paper.

The blade severs metal from flesh as it cleaves through Elena’s left shoulder. Metal screws, bolts, and pieces explode in a clatter of noise, but Elena is unfazed. She leaps into the air and on top of Sergius, embedding the shattered remains of her sword into his back. Blood seeps down his arming doublet, dripping freshly down upon the frigid soil. Raphael rushes Sergius, impaling his sword in his side.

A glint of pain shines briefly upon Sergius’s face. He then grapples Elena, who is lain on top of him, by her throat, then violently throws her down. Without delay, Sergius turns to his left, where Raphael is, and thrusts his right foot forward. His leather boot hits Raphael squarely in his left side, the impact penetrating his ribs, unloading a sickening snap. Raphael is then ripped from the ground like a cannonball, and he lands several feet away, kissing the earth.

Raphael, upon his hands and knees, attempt mightily to get back onto his feet, but he quickly fails, clutching onto his broken ribs. Every breath is agonizing. Sergius grips Raphael’s sword that is stuck in his side and rips it out. He then tosses the bloody blade back to Raphael.

A show of chivalry!

Raphael leans upon his sword like a cane. His gaze meets the sky-blue eyes of Sergius, then slides to his ally, Elena, who is still lain out upon the ground.

She must be unconscious.

In a split-second of decision-making, with precious little time between himself and the advancing Sergius, Raphael glances at the guns in Clara’s possession. He has read about them in his books at the Royal Library. It takes a pull of a trigger to ignite them.

With that knowledge, Raphael springs forward. However, Sergius cuts him off, laying down his colossal sword upon Raphael. Raphael bares his teeth as he slips past the wide, diagonal slice. But within a heartbeat, Sergius unleashes another swing: a downcast strike. Raphael nimbly threads his body through the smallest of gaps.

Landing upon Clara’s corpse, Raphael frantically scrambles for the pistol strapped to her hip. With it in his grasp, Raphael aims and fires. Coolly, Sergius swings his body to the right, hearing the bullet whiz just past his ear.

However, something catches his eyes then, unexpectedly and furiously kicking him directly on his left arm. His eyes squint in agony as they rush to the disturbance. He ganders upon a brown-haired woman—Elena—standing there, her pant-leg tattered, revealing that her left leg is too made of metal.

The momentum of the blow throws Sergius into the wooden wall of the barn, knocking off a lantern hanging from the wall. It lands into a bed of dry hay, which immediately catches flame. Sergius, however, has more pressing thoughts in his head, such as dealing with his now fractured left arm.

Elena’s body spins and unloads yet another roundhouse kick, which Sergius ducks low and dodges. Raphael, inspired by his ally’s assault, slowly pries himself off of the floor. He haggardly lifts his longsword and lays a strike upon Sergius. Sergius, with his lightning-quick instincts, bats the blow back with the weak flat of his sword.

The flames spread with alarming swiftness, burning up the frame of the barn. Decimus, amid his dance with Fionnlagh, feasts his sky-blue eyes upon the rapidly-growing fire. Without delay, he forgoes his duel. He attempts to stamp out the flame, but it does little to interrupt its progress.

“Sergius!” Decimus yells. “Sergius!”

Sergius’s ears perk as his father calls him, glancing back at his opponents and clicking his tongue. He then sheathes his steel and unbuttons the strap of his cape, turning around and casting it upon the flames. Decimus glares at the son he deems useless, and his gravelly voice roars, “Water, you fool! Go get some water!”

Sergius, heeding his father’s command, rushes away, leaving him alone with the enemy. Fionnlagh’s eyes, despite his lack of success up until this point, flash, training upon the old man, who stares back with cockiness. The flames that begin to surround him escaping his mind, the grip upon his longsword tightening to a vise; Fionnlagh lusts for revenge, so closely trickling upon his tongue.

Decimus retreats from the blazing barn, entering another room to their back. The triad of resisters peel their focus off of Decimus and apply it to the horses, who frightfully neigh at the presence of the flames.

“Whoa, whoooa,” calmly says Raphael, grasping the beasts by the reins. “Shhh…”

He attempts to move the horses in circles before giving them a good pat, which…somehow calms them down. With raised eyebrows, Fionnlagh and Elena gaze upon Raphael, wondering exactly how he knows what to do. He simply shrugs and says, “I read it in a book once.”

Fionnlagh, unfamiliar with the ways of handling a horse, slowly and unconfidently crawls his way atop it. Elena also makes her way up upon one, awkwardly taking up the saddle, for she only has one arm to lift herself. Raphael goes around and releases the horses, which explode from their box stalls.

Together with the rebellious three, they ride out, escaping the blazing barn.