The Pig's Counterattack
The great hall of Greymoor Castle thundered with Halbrecht's rage. His fists slammed against the feast table, splattering wine across maps and banners.
"They burn my granaries!" he bellowed. "They starve my city! And still the peasants whisper gods in their gutters! Enough! Enough!"
His knights knelt in silence, armored heads bowed. None dared meet his eye.
Halbrecht's face glistened with sweat. "Every alley, every forest path — scour them clean. Smoke them from their holes, drag their corpses to my walls! I want these vermin hunted like dogs!"
He stabbed his jeweled finger down on the map, splintering the wood. "No mercy. No quarter. Burn their hovels, bleed their children if you must. I want them to choke on ashes."
The knights rose as one, saluting. "By your command, my lord."
That night, Greymoor's streets and forests crawled with armored patrols. Torches flared in the alleys. Dogs bayed through the trees. Peasants fled their huts as iron boots smashed down doors.
One rebel, too slow, was dragged screaming into the square and nailed to a post, left to die as a warning.
But the rebellion did not collapse. Because one knight did not ride for Halbrecht.
Sir Aldric, captain of the eastern watch, had watched the rebellion grow with unease. He'd seen mothers starve while Halbrecht drowned himself in wine. He'd seen comrades executed for hesitating when ordered to butcher children. And last night, he had stood on the walls as the granaries burned — and felt the people cheer despite their hunger.
And something inside him snapped.
Instead of leading his patrol into the woods, Aldric broke away under cover of night, slipping through ruined backstreets until he found the cellar entrance whispered among peasants.
When he pushed inside, the rebels froze — blades raised, torches ready.
"Hold!" Damian's voice cut through, cold and commanding. His axe gleamed in the lamplight. "Who are you?"
Aldric removed his helm, revealing a scarred face, weary eyes. "A man tired of serving a pig. My name is Aldric. I am… was… Halbrecht's knight. And I have information you need."
Suspicion rippled through the rebels, but Damian's gaze narrowed with interest.
"What information?" he asked.
Aldric's voice was low, steady. "Halbrecht plans to purge the slums tomorrow night. He means to flood the district with fire and blade. But more than that…" He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "I know the castle's gates. The guards, the rotations, the keys. When the time comes, I can open them for you."
The cellar erupted into whispers.
Riven's grin was feral. "Well, well. A pig's knight turned traitor. You just bought yourself a front-row seat in this House."
Kael muttered, "Or a dagger in the back if he's lying."
Damian's voice silenced them all. "We'll test him. If he speaks true, then the pig's castle will be ours. If not…" His eyes cut to Aldric, cold as steel. "…he'll die screaming."
Aldric nodded without flinching. "Then test me. I came here to kill Halbrecht. If the gods have truly descended, I'll serve them."
The rebels roared their approval, half in awe, half in hunger for blood.
The House had gained not just another soldier — but a key.
Meanwhile, in the castle, Halbrecht sat alone in the dark, gnawing at a bone, sweat dripping down his fat face. His spies told him nothing. His people whispered gods. His knights bled in the alleys.
And he knew — though he dared not speak it aloud — that somewhere in his ranks, betrayal festered.
But Halbrecht swore into the empty hall, his voice breaking.
"They will not take my city. They will not take my throne. I will drown them in fire before I let them rule."
Yet outside his walls, fire already burned.
And in the shadows, one of his own knights sharpened a dagger for his throat.
The Knight of the Gods
By morning, the alleys of Greymoor buzzed with a new rumor.
"The knight has bent the knee."
"They say he swore fealty to the sky gods."
"Halbrecht's own captain now serves them."
In the marketplace, an old baker leaned close to her customer, voice a hoarse whisper. "I heard he cast down his sword before the gods and begged to serve. They say his oath was sealed in blood."
A cobbler spat in the dust. "More fairy tales. No knight would betray his lord."
But the butcher's wife shook her head. "I saw him. Sir Aldric. He walked into the slums last night and never came out. This morning, the patrols whisper he's gone. Where else would he go?"
Children already played the story, one boy pretending to kneel before a taller one holding a stick like a divine blade.
"I swear my oath to the gods of the sky!"
Laughter echoed, but beneath it throbbed belief.
By dusk, the tale had grown:
Aldric had not just defected — he had been chosen.
The gods had touched his heart, burned away his loyalty to the pig, and made him their knight.
And for the first time, the rebellion had something more than faceless farmers and fire.
It had a hero the people could point to.