Cadmun, reinvigorated by hatred towards Stamos, struggled to get free, but PP tightened his grip.
“John Reacher,” Stamos’s voice boomed, “are you really going to disobey a direct order from a superior officer?”
Reacher stiffened, understanding the gravity of the situation. Slowly, he sheathed his mace, his face sinking into a deep scowl.
“No, Sir.”
“Then clean up this mess.” Stamos delivered his orders with cold precision. “Take these rebelling NPCs to the shanties. The Baron wants more hands dealing with the fire. It can’t spread to the mansion.”
Stick’s eyes instinctively darted towards the centre of the estate. The once towering pillar of smoke had thinned, but flames still licked at the edges of the buildings. The thought gnawed at him. It’s still burning. After all of this, it’s still burning.
“Yes, Sir,” Reacher responded, though his voice carried none of the malice it held earlier. It was subdued, defeated.
“Good,” Stamos said, but as Reacher turned to mount his horse, Stamos raised a hand. “No.”
Reacher paused mid-motion, his head tilting in confusion.
“On foot,” Stamos commanded, his voice cold.
For a moment, Stick thought Reacher would argue, but he didn’t. He simply nodded, a subtle but unmistakable sign of submission. Without a word, he turned away from the horse and moved towards the gathered slaves, rounding them up with a mechanical detachment that had replaced his earlier fury.
“Becket,” Stamos called next, his tone unchanged. “Watch over those three until further notice.”
“Yes, Sir,” Becket replied with a firm nod, his expression unreadable.
Stick watched as Becket walked over to where Cadmun had dropped his sword. He picked it up, gripping the hilt tightly as if he promised to never lose it again, before sheathing it in the scabbard it belonged to. Stick couldn’t help but feel a pang of shame. That sword had been Cadmun’s lifeline in the fight, but it was also used to harm and potentially kill a human being. We’re no different from them.
Stamos, without another glance at the chaos he had orchestrated, mounted Reacher’s horse. He rode with effortless grace, like the whole world bent to his will. The others—Stick, PP, and Cadmun—were left standing in the snow, watching as he moved towards the barricade blocking the exit.
“Open it,” Stamos ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.
Michael stood in front of the barricade, his shoulders tense, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He didn’t move.
Stick’s heart sank. Don’t do it, Michael.
Stamos stopped the horse, his gaze drilling into the miner. “Out of the way.”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
His voice trembled but held a steely resolve. “No. Many died today so the Lords could escape.”
Michael was standing there, defying Stamos with every fibre of his being. He was no stranger to a fight, but this was just lunacy. Stick’s hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment, he thought there might still be a chance for peace. Stop it!
But then, with a swift motion, Stamos struck. His battleaxe came down in a blur of steel, slicing clean through Michael’s chest. The enormous pain, even though dulled by his Protection, subdued any screaming.
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“No!” Stick screamed, but it was too late.
Stamos didn’t stop. With cold, ruthless efficiency, he swung the axe again. The sound of metal meeting flesh was sickening, a sharp crack that echoed in the cold air. Michael staggered, gasping, his eyes wide with shock as blood sprayed across the snow. This time, it bit deep into his side, and he crumpled to the ground with a muffled cry, blood pouring from the wound like a river.
Stick’s legs moved before his mind could catch up. He ran towards Michael’s fallen body, his heart thundering in his chest. This can’t be happening.
He dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands shaking as he pressed them against Michael’s wounds, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.
“And you’re just one more on the list,” Stamos said dismissively, as if Michael’s life had been nothing more than an afterthought.
“You asshole!” Stick shouted. “You fiend!”
But Stamos didn’t even look back. He simply ordered the remaining miner to open the barricade. The poor man, trembling from head to toe, complied without a word, his face pale as he removed the wooden defences. As Stamos rode off towards the forest, disappearing into the trees in pursuit of the fleeing Lords, Stick was left alone with his grief. He leaned over Michael’s body, blood staining the snow beneath them.
“Michael… no.” His voice cracked, a desperate whisper. “Why did you do it?”
“These boys… they’re our future.” Michael’s chest heaved weakly, his breath rattling in his throat. “We… can’t give up on them that easy.”
Stick’s vision blurred with tears. “This is my fault. I’m so sorry.”
Michael’s hand twitched, but his eyes were unfocused, his skin turning an ashen grey. He coughed once, then twice, and then… nothing. His body went still. His vacant eyes stared up at the cloudy sky, unmoving.
“No… no, no, no.” Stick shook him gently, his voice breaking. “Please no.”
But Michael was gone.
Stick’s world crashed around him. A cold dread, deeper than anything he had ever known, took hold of his heart. He buried his face in his hands, blood streaking his skin. All of the Goblin Hunters were gone. And it was his fault.
“Fuck no,” he whispered, the weight of loss suffocating him.
A hand touched his shoulder gently. Stick looked up, his tear-streaked face meeting Becket’s concerned gaze. Becket offered him a flask, his expression softening. Without thinking, Stick grabbed the flask, unscrewing the cap and pouring the red liquid into Michael’s mouth. Please work. Please…
Stick knelt by Michael’s lifeless body, his hands trembling as he cradled his friend’s head. PP and Cadmun knelt beside him, their faces etched with worry, but the potion did nothing. The red liquid from the flask dribbled uselessly from Michael’s lips, pooling with the blood on the cold ground. Michael’s body remained limp, his chest still. There was no sign of life. The despair in Stick’s chest solidified into a cold, hard knot. It was supposed to be a rebellion for freedom, but here they were, with yet another body on the ground. He had failed.
image [https://i.imgur.com/a4oPKGr.jpeg]
Suddenly, a voice rang out, cutting through the thick silence. “There they are!”
Stick looked up, his blood-drenched hands slipping off Michael as he turned to face the oncoming group. The Baron Bonatelli approached with his entourage, flanked by the old man and the masked jester. The Baron’s eyes narrowed, his face twisted in fury.
The Baron’s cold eyes landed on Stick. “You,” he said, pointing with disdain. “You led this little insurrection, didn’t you?”
Stick’s mouth felt dry. He wanted to deny it, to tell them that it had all spiralled out of control, but what would it matter? They had already decided he was to blame.
“Answer me!” the Baron barked.
Stick met the Baron’s gaze, steeling himself.
“Yes,” he said, voice steady. “I did.”
The Baron’s lips curled into a twisted smile. “How noble of you to admit it. But nobility won’t save you.”
“My oh my,” the old man said, his voice dripping with condescension. “What will we make out of this mess?”
The old man stepped forward, bending low to inspect Michael’s body.
“What a waste of good labour,” he muttered, kicking at Michael’s limp form with his boot.
Stick’s blood boiled, and he had to fight every urge to strike him down where he stood.
The jester clapped his hands excitedly, his voice high-pitched and giddy. “What an exciting holiday!”
The face behind the mask was unreadable, but Stick got the feeling that that psychopath got some sort of excitement out of their situation. He glared at the ground, his fists still clenched. The weight of failure settled on his shoulders like a shroud. We were so close. So close.
“Well, then,” the old man said as he stood. “Let’s have these three locked up. This has become a matter for the High Council.”
As Becket motioned for them to move, Stick gave one last look at Michael. The man who had believed in his plan, even to the very end. I’m sorry, Michael.
They were led away to be shackled by Carnifex once again, their hopes of freedom dashed for now. But deep inside, Stick knew this wasn’t the end. The fire hadn’t died—it was still burning. And it had to keep burning, for their future was uncertain and the nightmare far from over.
END OF BOOK 0 PART 1: CAPTIVITY