{Memory core 27/???}

~~~~~{Memory Core 27 Start}~~~~~

The world shattered and reformed around me, a kaleidoscope of anguish and fire. I found myself once again in the crumbling alleys of Vezwincourt, where decay clung to my clothes like a second skin and every stone whispered secrets of neglect. It was as if the city itself wore the scars of a forgotten war, and tonight, those wounds ached with renewed fury.

To my left stood Peckolin—the Magician—his wiry frame half-swallowed by a tattered cloak that flitted with each shift of his weight. Even in the dim glow, his foxlike features were set in a perpetual scowl, faint blue sparks dancing at his fingertips like embers on the verge of ignition. His eyes, piercing and restless, betrayed a mind already calculating endless contingencies—each a separate branch of what might unfold tonight.

At my right, Candar, my steadfast friend whose name had nearly dissolved into the murmurs of these dark streets, shifted with the wary poise of a man who had witnessed too many horrors. His typical cocky grin had lost its luster, now revealing a mask of unease. A callused hand hovered near the knife at his belt, that blade as familiar to him as the scars carved into his life by ceaseless battles. In that moment, as we huddled in the oppressive gloom outside the lord’s manor, we felt more than rebels. We were the final sparks of hope, clinging to the notion that even a broken world could be cleansed by fire.

The manor rose before us like a cruel parody of grandeur, its jagged iron fence standing between misery and opulence. From within those fortified walls, the warm glow of luxury spilled through countless windows—a mocking testament to wealth clutched in selfish hands. Outside, we starved; inside, they feasted on the lifeblood of the weak. The injustice festered within me, gnawing at my resolve.

“Guard change happens in two minutes,” Peckolin said under his breath, his tone clipped. He tapped the side of his head, as if confirming items from an internal list. “We slip in, place the charge in the main hall, then get out through the servants’ exit. Quick and clean.”

Candar offered a grim laugh. “And if it goes to hell?” he asked, eyes reflecting the fear he tried so hard to bury.

Peckolin’s thin shoulders rose in a terse shrug. “Then we improvise.”

I forced my breath to steady and tightened my grip on my bow. The chill of the night mingled with the pounding in my chest; both told me there would be no turning back now.

From the courtyard, the guards’ boots scraped over the cobblestones in a steady rhythm. When the moment came, we melted out of the shadows like wraiths. Candar worked the iron gate’s lock with deft skill, years of illicit practice guiding his nimble fingers. The latch gave with a soft click, and we slid through the opening into a carefully manicured garden—a thing of beauty divorced from the squalor beyond these walls. Damp earth mingled with the scent of imported lilies, the floral sweetness somehow offensive when measured against the stench of despair in the alleys outside.

Within the manor, opulence weighed down the air. Velvet drapes, gilded frames, and ornate sculptures bore silent witness to every coin that had been siphoned from the vulnerable. Each polished surface taunted us with proof of cruelty rewarded.

We worked as a trio, each move honed by desperation. Peckolin knelt beneath a massive mahogany table dominating the main hall, tracing intricate patterns in the air with his fingertips. Pale sparks flickered as he lodged the charge in place. A subtle hiss told us the fuse had been triggered—thirty seconds until our verdict would detonate in smoke and ash.

Then—soft as a breeze through dead leaves—a cough broke the silence.

At once, every muscle in my body tensed. Peckolin’s usual calm shattered into alarm; Candar’s hand jerked toward his belt. My gaze flicked to them, and they were looking back at me, faces etched with a question that carried a warning: investigate now, or risk everything.

I forced a swallow past the lump in my throat. “Check it out,” I said, voice low. “Fast.”

Candar slipped ahead, blade gleaming in the lantern light as he eased open a nearby door. Moonlight spilled into a room full of uneven shapes—mounds of cloth and twisted forms across the floor. The silence clung like a shroud. My heart beat louder in my ears. Were they bodies? Were we already too late?

Then I saw their faces.

Children.

Worn garments clung to bony limbs, hollow cheeks stark against the dim light. Some lay where they’d collapsed, others huddled against walls, clutching at scraps of warmth. A girl, her eyes half-closed and lips parted, looked no older than ten, her breath rattling faintly in the still air. Some lay unconscious, their thin bodies limp; others appeared too far gone to ever wake again. A wave of horror crashed over me, and the fuse’s ticking suddenly felt like it thundered in my skull.

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Peckolin’s precise composure fractured further. “What… what is this?” he whispered, his voice hollow.

Candar’s face went pale, and he shook his head as if to deny the sight before him. “It’s a trap,” he managed, though I wasn’t sure if he meant for us or for the children. His hand curled so tightly around his knife that his knuckles shone white.

We had mere seconds left. A moral vise clamped down on my heart. Save them? Leave them to die? Everything about our plan to end injustice seemed to mock us now, twisted into something malevolent. We were about to slaughter the very innocents we claimed to defend.

A boy blinked at me through half-lidded eyes, an unvoiced plea for deliverance crossing his features. My guts twisted with shame as I realized we had become what we despised: tormentors with a spark and a fuse.

Then came the heavy clang of gates slamming shut. A door farther down the hall flew open. Torches flared as armored figures charged in, and the roar of chaos erupted. The gleam of steel and the thunder of boots jolted me into motion; it was as though the building itself had awakened to devour us. The soldiers—these merciless wardens of power—didn’t appear to care who they struck; their blades flashed without distinction between thief or child.

Peckolin spat out a curse, sparks flickering at his fingertips. Candar seized my arm, voice strained and urgent, “Rod, MOVE!”

Time slowed as I teetered between the doorway to the dying child and the corridor leading to escape. My body felt carved in two: one half compelled to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, the other half bound by a mission already on the brink of ruin.

Peckolin’s grip on my wrist tightened with an almost desperate force, and our eyes locked—his gaze filled with a shared, wrenching guilt. Wordlessly, he hauled me toward our only exit. The three of us sprinted down the corridor, leaving behind panicked screams and the flicker of dying hope.

We crashed through a tall window into the cold embrace of the night. Glass rained down on us in shimmering splinters, and almost immediately, the explosion ripped through the manor. A fiery gale slammed into our backs, the blast knocking us onto the hard cobblestones. I tumbled across the ground, wincing at the bruises forming beneath my clothes. Overhead, a fiery plume rose like an accusatory specter, swallowing the estate in a choking cloud of smoke.

Screams filled the dark, not just of soldiers but the shrill cries of trapped children. We had come seeking justice, and instead we had unleashed horror. My limbs felt like lead as I struggled to my feet, the world spinning with shock and guilt. I clutched my head, trying to contain the fragments of a conscience that felt irrevocably broken.

Beside me, Peckolin stared at the inferno with hollow eyes, his shoulders sagging under a weight words couldn’t describe. Candar pressed a trembling hand against the nearest wall, drawing ragged breaths that caught in his throat. Neither spoke; there was nothing to say that could undo what we had done. We had believed ourselves heroes, willing to sacrifice our own safety to end the tyranny of men who hoarded wealth. Instead, we had become agents of another atrocity.

I half-stumbled across the street, out of the range of the blazing heat, and collapsed against a stone wall. My gaze flickered to Candar, who stared at me, his face ashen. “What… what did we do?” he managed at last, voice cracking with grief.

My chest tightened as I glanced back at the consuming flames. “We wanted a revolution,” I murmured. “We got… this.” The words tasted of ash.

Peckolin turned away from the fire, his usual composure shattered. “We didn’t know,” he said quietly, but the excuse rang hollow. None of us had known how deep the rot went or how easily our enemies could twist our righteous cause into a trap. None of us had foreseen children locked away in the place we sought to destroy.

As the inferno continued to rage, I felt an unfamiliar hollowness gnaw at my resolve. We had sworn to set people free, yet we’d trapped them in a new kind of darkness. With every anguished cry and crackle of flames, our claims to heroism withered away, leaving guilt etched into our souls.

Smoke choked the sky, blotting out the stars, and when I closed my eyes, I saw the face of that boy behind my eyelids—pleading, accusing. I felt Candar’s unsteady hand on my shoulder, and in that touch, I recognized our shared grief. We were alive, but forever altered. Any belief that we could remain unscathed by the means we used to fight injustice was now scattered, burnt to cinders.

Eventually, we forced ourselves away from the burning manor. The distant clash of armor and shouts faded behind us as we wove back through the labyrinth of old stone walls and hidden lanes. Each footstep echoed with the knowledge that the cost of our rebellion was far higher than we had ever imagined. We tried to fade into the night, but the night felt just as haunted by our actions as we were.

In a narrow side alley, we paused, breath ragged, hearts pounding. The only light came from the dim glow of a half-broken lantern on a far wall. Peckolin leaned against the rough bricks, eyes downcast, his spark-snapping hands painfully still. Candar’s usually agile fingers trembled as he wiped away the sheen of sweat and tears from his face. I could barely bring myself to meet their gazes, fearing I’d see my own shame reflected back at me.

The city stretched around us like a silent witness, offering no absolution. For a long moment, we stood in a wordless vigil, the night’s chill failing to numb our regret. At last, Candar found his voice. “Where do we go from here?” he asked, voice hushed, as though speaking any louder might crack our fragile composure.

I didn’t have an answer. Everything we’d done, everything we’d fought for, seemed tainted now. All I could manage was a quiet admission that tasted like defeat. “We keep moving,” I said, though the words were hollow. “We try to learn from this… try to atone.”

Nobody asked how, because none of us knew. With the manor in flames behind us, we slipped once more into the darkness, the echoes of dying innocence clinging like a curse.

All I could hear was the boy’s rasping breath, the desperate cough that had opened our eyes to the cruelty we’d unleashed in the name of righteousness. We had crossed a line, and no matter where we ran or how long we fought, we could never return to who we were before tonight.

A distant roar of the fire lingered in the still air, an ever-present reminder of what we’d done. And I understood, with a clarity that burned deeper than any wound, that nothing—absolutely nothing—would ever be the same again.

~~~~~{Memory Core 27 End}~~~~~