The wind carried a bitter chill as dawn broke over Blackwood. In the high towers of the estate once belonging to Sir Frederick, Khalifa stood in silence, his hands folded behind his back. He watched the sun rise over the land he had conquered, but there was no pride in his gaze—only tension.
Behind him, Aleister entered the room, his arm wrapped tightly in a fresh bandage. He didn't speak immediately. The pain in his wound wasn't just from the bullet—it was from humiliation. Sabastin had made a fool of him, in front of the entire town.
Khalifa finally broke the silence. "You underestimated him."
Aleister clenched his jaw. "He's just one man."
"One man," Khalifa repeated, turning slowly, "who slipped through your hands—twice. You know who he is, don't you?"
"Yes," Aleister said bitterly. "He's the son of Frederick."
"No," Khalifa corrected. "He is Frederick. Reborn. That blood in him isn't common. It's old. Vengeful. And if he's anything like his father, he won't stop until he sees this place in ashes."
Aleister lowered his eyes. "Then we strike first."
Khalifa raised a brow. "How?"
"We send scouts to the eastern woods. We find their hideout. Burn it to the ground."
Khalifa stepped forward, his voice low and sharp. "That's not enough. We don't just kill Sabastin. We erase his legacy. We take the people who protect him, who feed him, who whisper his name. We make an example."
Aleister nodded slowly. "And the town?"
Khalifa smiled darkly. "They will obey. Fear is loyalty's cruel cousin."
Elsewhere, in the eastern woods, Sabastin made his way toward the old garrison marked on the map. Every step through the tangled terrain echoed with history—his father's, and now, his own.
Birds scattered as he approached the moss-covered structure. Vines wrapped around stone like the past refusing to be forgotten. But the doors were still intact, and locked tight.
He knelt by the rusted iron. A small crest was etched into the base—his family's. With a swift twist of the dagger he carried, he broke through the mechanism and slipped inside.
Dust clouded the air. The smell of mold and iron filled his lungs. He raised his lantern and stepped forward.
Crates lined the walls, marked with royal seals long out of use. Inside: rifles, outdated but functional. Scrolls. Deeds. Even letters from noble families—those who once supported Frederick.
Sabastin's breath caught when he found the ledger. It listed property transfers, names, bribes. And at the bottom—Khalifa's signature, under the forged seal of a dead king.
"Bastard," Sabastin whispered.
This was it. Proof. The story the people had forgotten—now reborn in ink and parchment.
He packed what he could into a canvas bag. But just as he turned to leave, a faint sound reached his ears.
Footsteps.
Sabastin snuffed out his lantern and melted into the shadows, pistol drawn. The footsteps grew louder—two men, maybe three. Armed.
Then a voice: "He was here. The fire's still warm."
Aleister's scouts.
Sabastin didn't wait. He leapt from the dark, pistol firing. The first man dropped instantly. The second fired blindly, but Sabastin rolled beneath the shot and struck him with the butt of his weapon. He turned to face the third—but the scout had already fled.
Sabastin cursed under his breath.
They knew now. The garrison wasn't a secret anymore.
By the time he returned to the cottage, night had fallen again. He slammed the ledger onto the table.
Frederick opened it, eyes widening as he flipped through. "This… this will burn Khalifa."
Sabastin nodded. "Then we light the match."
Carolina glanced up from where she sat. "What match?"
Petrova answered, her voice trembling with quiet fire: "A war. One they can't bury this time."
Outside, the forest swayed in the wind. But within that humble cottage, the bloodline of Frederick was no longer in hiding.
It was preparing to rise.
Great choice! Here's Chapter 13: Gathering the Forgotten, focused on Sabastin preparing for war and seeking allies.
Chapter 13: Gathering the Forgotten
The wind howled through the trees like spirits warning of what was to come. Sabastin stood outside the cottage, cloak wrapped around him, the forest thick with silence. In his hand was the old family ledger—a truth too dangerous to be hidden any longer.
Inside, his father sat sharpening a blade slowly, while Petrova and Carolina packed food and maps into satchels.
"We can't do this alone," Sabastin said, turning back to them. "Not anymore."
Frederick looked up. "I had allies once. Brave men. Some still live... others vanished when your mother died. But a few—if they're still breathing—owe me their loyalty."
Petrova approached, lacing her boots. "Where do we begin?"
Sabastin unrolled an aged map across the wooden table. He marked three points with a charcoal stub. "Here. The hill-folk near Darrow Ridge. My father's old friend in Ashbridge. And the blacksmith clans in the southern valley—they supplied our weapons during the old rebellion."
Frederick nodded slowly. "Darrow Ridge will be the hardest. They don't trust outsiders anymore. Not since Khalifa slaughtered half their village."
"Then we remind them what loyalty means," Sabastin replied.
The wind was colder up here, sweeping through the cliffs and broken stone homes of Darrow Ridge. Sabastin approached on foot, hands raised, his hood down. Archers watched from rooftops, bows drawn.
"I come in peace!" he called. "I am Sabastin, son of Frederick! The rightful heir of Blackwood!"
A silence fell. Then footsteps echoed behind a crumbling church. An old man stepped out, scars across his face, a rusted sword strapped to his back.
"I buried Frederick myself," he said coldly. "Don't lie to me."
Sabastin reached into his cloak and pulled out the family crest—metal, engraved with the mark of the fallen house. He tossed it to the man's feet.
"Would a lie carry this?" he asked.
The old man bent, lifted the crest, and studied it for a long moment. His breath hitched.
"Gods," he muttered. "You do have his eyes."
He turned to the archers. "