The Price of Power Chapter 8 - Poisoned Victory
- May 1
- 55 min read
Rashon felt decidedly out of place as he strode through the streets of Westcreek.
The aftermath of rebellion hung in the air. He could see dozens of broken windows, discarded weapons, and bloodstains in more places than the goliath wanted to think about. Whether the blood came from a slave or a Citizen was impossible to tell by now. After the fires were out, life had returned to something that approached normal. Freed from slavery or not, people still needed to eat. None of that is what had him out of sorts it was the way people looked at him.
In many ways, nothing had changed. People still parted around him like water around a stone, moving out of the way of the massive goliath as he passed through. They still stared. What changed though, was that where once they hurried away, now many lingered. The shift was subtle but unmistakable to someone who had spent years observing humans with his eyes downcast, learning to try to be as unintimidating as possible. A freewoman selling fruit at a makeshift stall caught his eye and offered a hesitant smile. Two days ago, she would have clutched her wares protectively, certain the massive gray-skinned beast would steal from her or worse. Now, she even held out an apple as he passed. "For you, it's free," she said, her voice wavering but determined.
Despite the woman’s her worn clothes and tired face, she had full breasts that pressed against her simple tunic, and Rashon found himself wondering what it would feel like to cup them in his massive hands, to hear her gasp as he— He jerked his thoughts away, uncomfortable with how his body responded even to this brief kindness. It wasn’t entirely his fault, he knew. The ancestors that were inside him amplified all of his natural traits like his strength, his endurance, and his hunger… and his sexual appetite. The latter posed the most significant problem, since no one wanted to risk sleeping with a terrifying monster like him. Certain environments posed a bigger problem than others, though, and in the wake of a battle… and surrounded by so many beautiful slave women as this city was stuffed with… Rashon had needed to make himself cum three times last night just to be able to sleep. He had hoped that would let him keep his thoughts from wandering with need today.
Clearly, he had been wrong about that.
He had broken no shortage of chains in his restrained war against the Empire, but this slave revolt was the largest scale one he had ever fomented. Everyone in the city knew he had been a part of it. Rashon grunted, accepting the gratitude while he shifted his pants and was glad that they were too armored to tent… he knew that her gratitude would only extend so far. Further down the street, a group of men rebuilding a storefront paused in their work as he approached. Rashon tensed, expecting the usual fear, the clutched weapons. Instead, one man nodded respectfully. Another raised his hammer in a small salute. Rashon's steps faltered. He had spent so long being seen as less than human that this simple acknowledgment of his existence felt foreign, almost painful in its unfamiliarity.
A woman worked alongside them, probably the shop owner's wife, her dress hiked up to keep it from the sawdust. Rashon caught a glimpse of her bare calves, the way sweat made her bodice cling to her curves, and felt the familiar ache of need in his groin. When was the last time he'd had a woman? Too long. Far too long. Most whores wouldn't even consider servicing him, and decent women crossed the street when they saw him coming. How different would the men’s reaction to him be if they knew what thoughts were in his head? It made him feel like the treatment he had suffered for years was justified.
That hurt especially badly right now… since that treatment had, for the moment, stopped. Rashon walked on, increasingly aware of the whispers that followed him. Hero. Liberator. The Mountain Who Walks. The names sat uncomfortably on his shoulders… he didn’t like attention. He kept his face impassive, having long ago learned that showing emotion only gave others power over him. The Empire had taught him that lesson with whips and chains. Even so, this focus felt even heavier than his slave collar had been. His calloused fingers rose absently to his neck, tracing the raw scar where the obedience collar had once chafed his skin. The magical device had been specially crafted by House Nightweave's blood mages to contain beings of his strength, its runes burning into his flesh day and night, ready to deliver crippling pain at the slightest defiance. Even now, more than a year after Acalia had managed to take it off of him, he sometimes woke gasping, convinced he could still feel its constriction around his throat.
In some ways Rashon was just as uncomfortable with this treatment as he had been with overt fear and hostility. One way or the other, he stood out. Then again, ever since the Empire had enslaved his tribe and dragged him back in chains he hadn’t been normal or fit in anywhere. If he wasn’t going to be normal, then at least he was being respected. It was better than the alternative.
He approached the Broken Crown, one of the taverns that had survived the revolt and was now doing a swift business. Plenty of people were drinking themselves to oblivion, and Rashon understood why. While there were plenty of freed people optimistic on the streets outside, there were many more that were waiting for the hammer to come down. They had revolted against an Imperial Governor and killed him. The Iron Empire’s wrath would be brutal, but none of them had any idea what to do about it… so they did the only thing they could do. They drank, and waited for the Empire’s retribution to come for them.
Bending almost double to fit his eight-foot frame through the doorway built for humans, Rashon entered, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. The noise level dipped momentarily as heads turned, but then rose again… people moving on without the fear. Rashon felt something shift inside him, something that had been clenched tight for so long he had forgotten it could relax.
The moment Rashon entered the tavern, Acalia's distinctive voice cut through the murmur of conversation. "Rashon! Over here!" She waved from a corner table, her back to the wall. That was Acalia… always the warrior, never letting her guard down. Even seated, her muscular form commanded attention with the way her armor hugged her athletic frame, how her white hair caught the torchlight. Rashon felt the familiar tightness in his chest that he always pushed down when he looked at her. She was beautiful, fierce, untouchable. And as the closest thing to family he had left, far too valuable to risk ruining with his desires.
Rashon navigated through the crowded room, acutely aware of how the floorboards creaked beneath his weight and how conversations stuttered as he passed. The tavern's low ceiling forced him to stoop, his massive gray shoulders brushing the hanging oil lamps. He reached the table where his companions sat, and Acalia gestured to the empty space beside her. Rashon squeezed his massive frame onto a bench that creaked dangerously under his weight. The wood protested with a sharp crack that made nearby patrons glance over nervously, but it held.
His eyes immediately found Vashara, still unable to believe the miracle of her resurrection. The elven archer sat across from him, her throat showing no sign of the vicious slash that had ended her life just a week ago. Instead her pale skin was unmarked, perfect. He couldn't help but notice how her simple traveling clothes clung to her lithe form. The goliath's cock stirred despite himself—she was beautiful, alive, and sitting close enough to touch. Guilt immediately followed the arousal. She belonged to Daerreth, had died horribly, and here he was thinking like some rutting beast.
Vashara’s silver eyes met his briefly and she nodded once, acknowledging his scrutiny with the same quiet dignity she had always possessed. Daerreth sat possessively close to her, his fiery hair gleaming in the tavern's dim light. The genasi's arm was draped across Vashara's shoulders, his fingers absently stroking her skin as if to constantly reassure himself of her solid presence. Rashon noted the changes in him since his journey through the mirror: A haunted look behind his eyes, a new hardness to his mouth. Whatever he had faced to bring Vashara back had marked him deeply.
Milaena and Valdis completed their circle, the priestess's serene presence a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Her white-blonde hair was hidden beneath a hood, but nothing could disguise the priestess’s beauty. Beside her, Valdis sat close enough that their shoulders touched, the small human woman's eyes darting nervously around the room. Her hands trembled slightly as she raised a mug to her lips. Even in their modest robes, Rashon could see the curve of their hips, the way the fabric outlined their breasts when she leaned forward. His mouth went dry imagining what lay beneath those sacred garments, how her skin might feel against his rough hands. The thoughts made him shift uncomfortably again… These two were devoted to one another, and it wasn’t him that they didn’t want. They didn’t want any man. More than anyone, Milaena was held blameless: She had made oaths to her goddess. He had no right to think of her that way.
Maybe he should have masturbated four times last night.
"You took your time," Acalia said, sliding a tankard of ale toward him. It looked comically small in his massive hand. "Enjoying your newfound celebrity?"
Rashon grunted, discomfort evident in the set of his shoulders. "Not used to it," he rumbled, his deep voice reverberating in his chest. "People staring. Not out of fear."
"Better get used to it," Daerreth said with a flash of his old grin, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're the hero of Westcreek now, big man. The Goliath who broke the Empire's back."
"Half of them still shit themselves when they see you," Acalia added, her voice dropping to ensure only their table could hear. "But they're calling you the Mountain Who Walks in the streets."
Rashon felt his stomach clench at the thought. His people had valued deeds worthy of songs, but he had never sought such recognition. “You were just as much a part of it as I was,” he muttered accusingly at the tiefling.
“But I’m not eight feet tall,” she said with a small smile, driving her shoulder into him companionably. Rashon didn’t so much as sway. She sighed. "Anyway. Now that we have a few minutes to talk," Acalia said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we need to talk about what’s next, and what we do with the garrison. We kicked the bastards out of town, but they'll be back with reinforcements unless we do something about the Imperial troops stationed there."
Vashara's delicate fingers tightened around her bow, which rested unstrung against the table edge. "Runners have definitely made it back to the fortress by now,” she said softly. It was obvious she didn’t want to think about that place, and Rashon didn’t need to guess why the place she had died made her feel uncomfortable. "They can’t allow a full-fledged slave revolt to stand. They’ll be preparing a response force as we speak."
"How long?" Valdis asked, her voice tight with anxiety.
"Three days, maybe four," Daerreth answered, his face grim. "Not long enough for us to help these people prepare proper defenses, even if they would listen to us and were capable."
Milaena's serene voice cut through the tension. "Plenty of the freed slaves can barely stand after years in chains. There are enough rebels in this town to fight, but not enough to fight an army. They're not soldiers. They'll be slaughtered when the Empire returns in force."
Rashon took a long drink of his ale, feeling the familiar burn as it slid down his throat. The taste reminded him of better days in the mountains, of ritual feasts and clan gatherings long lost to him. When he set the tankard down, all eyes were on him, waiting for his assessment. They looked to him for the harsh truths no one else wanted to speak.
"The Iron Legion never forgets," he rumbled, his deep voice seeming to reverberate in his massive chest. "Never forgives. They will come with fire and chains."
Acalia nodded, her scarred face tightening. "That's why we need to hit the garrison now, before they can reorganize. Make it impossible for them to attack Westcreek."
Everyone looked at the tiefling like she was insane. Rashon looked too, but not just because the idea was crazy. The scars along her jaw and cheek only enhanced her beauty in Rashon's eyes: Proof of her strength, her refusal to break. He found himself studying the curve of her lips as she spoke, the fire in her golden eyes… "Acalia, when we raided the place we were trying to free a shipment of slaves with the intention of not being found. Fighting the entire garrison was never a part of the plan. They have a whole army in there,” Milaena said. “How do you propose we fight off at least three hundred men?”
Rashon grunted in agreement, his massive hands clenching into fists on the table. It seemed impossible. Then again, assaulting the fortress and getting back Acalia and Vashara had seemed impossible, too.
"We can't leave these people to be slaughtered," Vashara said, her silver eyes flashing with determination. "Not when they just got their freedom. If the Legion are allowed to operate freely, then they'll retake Westcreek within days. Everyone who participated in the rebellion will hang."
"No one is saying we will leave them,” Valdis muttered softly. “I just… don't see what we’re going to do about it.”
Milaena's gentle voice offered a question. "Perhaps there's another way? Something besides a direct assault?"
Silence fell over their table as each considered the problem from different angles. Rashon stared into his ale, memories of his time in the Imperial slave legion surfacing unbidden. He had been forced to fight for the very people who had enslaved him, to kill others like himself for their entertainment and strategic gain. He knew how they thought, how they planned. He knew more about the logistics of moving an army than either of the others, there had to be something. There had to be-
"They need water," he said suddenly, looking up. "Garrison built on rock. No well inside walls. They must pipe it in."
Daerreth's eyes lit with understanding. "Cut off their water? Lay siege?"
"A siege only works if we have enough force to stop them from coming to us and breaking it,” Milaena said softly. “If they can just come out and kill us, then cutting off their water doesn’t do much.”
"We could organize the freed slaves into a fighting force," Daerreth suggested, his fingers absently tracing patterns on Vashara's arm. "The ones that are left might be enough to help us hold the water supply.”
Acalia snorted, the sound harsh and dismissive. "With what training? What weapons? Besides, once they realized the water was cut off couldn’t they just march for Westcreek and go around us?” She shook her head. “It’s not going to work.”
Rashon clenched his fists in frustration, and felt foolish for having suggested it. “She’s right,” he rumbled. "No good."
"Could we lead the people away?" Daerreth offered. “Into the forests?”
Rashon shrugged. “Imperial armor is heavy. Not good for woods. Formations break. Supplies hard to move. Vulnerable.”
Vashara shook her head, her delicate features pinched with worry. "They'd hunt them down like animals," she said. "They’d have nowhere to go. The Empire would treat it as a training exercise for their trackers. Those people wouldn't stand a chance."
Milaena nodded in agreement, her serene face troubled. "And that’s if the beasts or bandits don’t get them first. Weak and unfamiliar with wilderness survival, none of them would last long. And there are children among them, elderly, the sick. And that’s if we could get them to go in the first place."
Silence fell over the table, heavy with the weight of their seemingly impossible situation. The freed slaves couldn't fight, couldn't flee, couldn't hope to withstand the Empire's retribution. The victory they'd won felt increasingly hollow, a brief moment of triumph before inevitable tragedy.
A woman cleared her throat.
Rashon looked over to the seventh woman at the table.
Adeliah sat there, idly running her fingers through a tangle in her dark hair. The merchant's robes were immaculate despite the town's chaos. “If we can go back to it,” she said quietly, “I think Rashon was onto something with the well.”
Rashon grunted in acknowledgment, his focus turning entirely to her. He wasn’t sure if he trusted this woman. She had done absolutely nothing untrustworthy, had done nothing but help. It was probably unfair to blame herself for the things he had needed to do to that poor merchant girl to use the glove he still wore. The merchant woman had helped them resurrect Vashara… that alone bought her a place at their table. Still, he just wasn’t used to good things and helpful people turning up out of nowhere, and her appearance had been very, very timely.
Rashon had to remind himself that Valerion did watch over the worthy, and sometimes good things did happen.
“What are you thinking?” Acalia asked.
Adeliah smiled, her perfect teeth gleaming in the tavern's flickering light. "You might not be able to stop the water," she said, leaning forward. Everyone at the table instinctively mirrored her movement, drawn in by the sudden confidence in her voice. "But if the water comes in from outside like Rashon says, if they are drawing from a single aquifer, then you could poison it.”
Everyone suddenly went quiet, considering. “That… could work,” Rashon rumbled. “Could poison whoever drinks.”
“But it surely wouldn’t take out everyone,” Valdis said. “They would realize something was wrong before then. And what about the slaves? If they drank, it would kill them, too.”
"A poison that has to be drunk would be a problem, I agree,” Adeliah said, leaning back in her chair and considering. “But there are some poisons that turn to gas when they are dissolved.”
Milaena's eyes widened in recognition and sudden excitement. "Like dreamshade extract?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Adeliah nodded, seemingly pleased by the priestess's knowledge. "Precisely."
"What is dreamshade?" Acalia demanded, her patience visibly thinning.
"A flowering plant that grows only in certain marshes to the south," Milaena explained confidently. "Surgeons use it as a medicine, and other priests use it for especially severe injuries. When distilled, you get a thick, powdery pollen that turns to a gas after soaking through with water. It induces deep, dreamless sleep in anyone who inhales it for hours."
"And you're suggesting we use it on the entire garrison?" Vashara asked Adeliah, her silver eyes curious.
The merchant woman spread her hands in an elegant gesture. "The underground water sources feeding the garrison's wells connect to a single access point outside their walls. Introduce the extract there, and within an hour or two…
“Every person inside will be unconscious!” Acalia said with a sudden, victorious grin. “We’ll be able to take the entire garrison prisoner. Free the slaves. Destroy their weapons and armor, or steal it for the town. It’s perfect!”
Rashon felt a surge of hope as the group's energy shifted from despair to possibility. The plan had an elegant simplicity to it — no direct confrontation, no need for the freed slaves to fight, no mass exodus through hostile territory. "You're sure this will work?" Acalia asked, her voice sharp with the weight of responsibility. "If it fails, we won’t have time to try anything else."
"I’m not a soldier," Adeliah said, laying her hands flat on the table with her palms up. “I can’t promise that."
Acalia’s lip twisted as she considered. "Has it been used militarily before?"
"It has," Adeliah assured her. "During the Crimson Rebellion in the Scadu Province, the Iron Legions used it to gas an entire city and take its defenders alive as slaves."
Rashon's eyes narrowed at that. The Crimson Rebellion had happened more than a hundred years ago. Milaena hadn’t even been a child when that happened, and she was the oldest of them. Adeliah couldn’t be older than thirty, which meant her story came from Imperial propaganda, which could very easily be distorted. The Empire loved telling stories of overwhelming victories against rebellions, it made them seem even more invincible than they actually were. Still, he didn’t have a better idea, and he didn’t want to raise doubt in Adeliah’s presence.
"If it works," Valdis said slowly, "we could win. Take out an entire province’s garrison. This area would be in open rebellion against the Iron Empire with no chance of a quick response."
Acalia nodded, her tactical mind clearly assessing the angles. "It could work," she admitted. "But where would we get this dreamshade extract? You said it's rare, Milaena."
Milaena’s eyes fell as she frowned. “Yes. It is. And it's usually used by the pinch. To drug the fortress, we’ll need a lot more than that.”
“I have some,” Adeliah said confidently. All eyes turned towards the merchant, whose smile never wavered. "What?” She asked, snorting. “I am a merchant specializing in rare commodities, after all. I don’t spend all my time guarding cursed nightmares and assisting errant heroes over their heads. Why are you surprised? It's not coincidence — it's business. Dreamshade extract fetches a high price from the right buyers.”
Rashon watched as the hope in his companions' faces grew stronger. This could work. This could actually save the people of Westcreek, give them a fighting chance against the Empire's retribution.
“The real question is, what will you give me for it?” Adeliah said with a tiny huff of laughter.
Acalia raised an eyebrow. “You’re… charging us?"
"Merchant, remember?” Adeliah said, waggling her perfectly tripped eyebrows. “Not a revolutionary. I’m happy to help, but I can’t just give away my valuable merchandise. Sets a terrible precedent."
Daerreth rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “The Governor’s vaults were bursting with coins. It’s all being claimed by the rebels by now, but I’m sure we can get them to pay for-"
"Oh, relax," Adeliah said, putting her hands back down on the table. “I’m not going to take the money from a bunch of slaves. No… what I need is just a small favor. It won’t even take you an hour.”
Acalia leaned forward, the tiefling’s face tight with impatience. "Name your price."
Adeliah's eyes gleamed with something that made Rashon's stomach tighten. “Ever since we recovered what was taken by Harrick, I’ve been going through them, and I’m still missing a few things. Most of them I’ll have to chalk up to being lost… but one of them is personal. Luckily, I’m sure I know where it went.” She looked at them. "There's a fence named Terra operating in Westcreek," she said, each word precisely chosen. "She's sold several items stolen from my collection, including an amulet that belonged to my father. I want it back."
She paused, letting the information settle before continuing. "Bring me back my amulet, and you can have all the dreamshade I have."
The companions exchanged glances, and Rashon saw the same calculation in their eyes that he felt himself making — one thief's freedom weighed against the lives of hundreds of slaves. It wasn't really a choice at all.
Acalia's jaw tightened, and Rashon could see her weighing her options. Her pale blue fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the table. “Fine. How do we find her?" she finally asked.
"She operates from the slums near the eastern wall," Adeliah replied. "Not difficult to locate if you ask the right questions. She's known for taking jobs too risky for other fences."
"We'll find her," Acalia promised, her voice firm despite the conflict Rashon could see in her eyes.
He nodded his agreement, though something about the merchant's smile left him cold. "Excellent," Adeliah said, rising from the table with fluid grace. "I’ll be in my wagon, figuring out where I packed that dreamshade away. Bring me back my father’s amulet, and it’s all yours.”
As she left, Rashon noticed how the graceful warrior effortlessly wove between the tavern's patrons. She really was a beautiful woman. He drained his tankard in one long swallow, then rose and followed her out.
Tracking down Terra proved simpler than expected. It didn’t even take a full hour.
They found her hovel in the poorest section of Westcreek, where the stench of sewage and despair hung heavy in the night air. Rashon's nose wrinkled at the assault of smells —human waste, rotting food, the sickly-sweet odor of infected wounds left untreated. Even most of the slaves of Westcreek lived better than this, because they were someone’s property and therefore it was in their ‘owner’s’ best interest to maintain them. This was where the lowest rungs of this city’s few remaining freemen lived, where people kept one step ahead of their debts and being put in chains or selling themselves into the collar. Those who lived here were technically free, but bound by poverty as surely as any chain.
They had split into pairs to cover more ground, with Acalia insisting on partnering with Rashon. The tiefling moved confidently through the warren of ramshackle dwellings, her face unreadable in the darkness. Rashon followed more awkwardly, his massive frame ill-suited to the narrow alleys and low doorways of the slum. His shoulders brushed against the flimsy walls of hovels as he passed, causing the structures to shudder and drawing frightened whispers from within.
"You're scaring them," Acalia muttered, glancing back at him.
"Can't help my size," Rashon grunted in response. He couldn't make himself smaller, couldn't erase the years of conditioning that had taught the poor to fear anyone larger and stronger than themselves. Power meant pain in the Empire, regardless of who wielded it. Unlike when he moved among the slaves, the freemen here didn’t know him, didn’t have any love for him. He wasn’t sure which was better.
One by one, they found clues to what they sought. A child begging on a corner, they made three coppers richer for pointing them toward "the woman who buys and sells treasures." An old man nursing a bottle of cheap spirits was willing to confirm the location for the promise of a full flask later. A woman washing clothes in gray water, eyes darting nervously, confirmed that yes, Terra lived there with her sister.
The hovel stood at the end of a winding alley, indistinguishable from the dozens around it except for the small symbol scratched into the doorframe—a circle bisected by a wavy line. Rashon recognized a sign in thieves cant, even if he didn’t read it himself. "This is it," Acalia said, her hand dropping to the hilt of her sword. "You first. Your size will discourage resistance."
Rashon had to crouch to enter the tiny dwelling, his massive shoulders barely fitting through the doorframe. Inside, the space was so confined that he remained hunched over, his head brushing against the low ceiling. The hovel consisted of a single room, lit by a single guttering candle that cast more shadows than light. The floor was packed earth, the walls a patchwork of scavenged wood and canvas. A small brazier in the corner provided meager warmth, its coals glowing dully.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness, taking in the two figures inside. A thin woman — Terra, presumably — knelt beside a pallet on the floor, where another woman lay motionless. The standing woman whirled at their entrance, her face contorting with fear as she took in Rashon's massive form filling the doorway and Acalia's distinctive horned silhouette behind him.
"Please," Terra begged as soon as she saw them, falling to her knees. “I have nothing for you to take. Just… leave me alone!” Her clothes had probably once belonged to some merchant’s wife, or had been stolen goods she couldn’t tell: They clearly had been fine, once. Now, they were worn ragged. Rashon's eyes fixed on how the torn fabric gaped at her neckline as she knelt, offering glimpses of pale skin beneath. The submissive position stirred his hunger—how natural she looked on her knees. His treacherous cock stirred again in his pants. There was part of him, a small but loud part, that screamed that it didn’t matter that she was small, it just made her perfectly sized to service him. He could grab her hair, force her head back, make her understand exactly how she could earn mercy from him. The image of her gaunt face that had skipped too many meals with her lips stretched around his cock and struggling with his size flashed unbidden through his mind.
He shook his head to clear it. “We've come to retrieve an amulet,” Rashon said.
“A set of three silver triangles,” Acalia elaborated. “With a sapphire in the middle.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” the thin woman said.
“Please,” Acalia said, looking at the ramshackle home. “If you make us look for it, my friend here is going to be a little clumsy in such tight places. Who knows how many walls and tables and chairs he might accidentally step on in the process.” By way of demonstration, Rashon reached over for one of the chairs, letting the fence see just how much it looked like doll furniture on his huge hands.
“Stop! Please, stop!” she cried out. "I… I don’t have that one anymore. I sold it months ago! I needed to buy medicine!" She gestured to a small vial beside the sick woman. "My sister has the wasting sickness. Without the medicine, she'll die in agony."
Rashon's gaze shifted to the woman on the pallet. Her skin had the gray pallor of advanced illness, her chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. Dark circles shadowed her sunken eyes, and her lips had a bluish tinge that spoke of oxygen deprivation. He had seen slaves die of the same disease in the mines, their lungs gradually filling with fluid until they drowned in their own bodies. It was a slow, painful death, one that Imperial overseers often prolonged by forcing the sick to continue working until they literally collapsed. It wasn’t actually a disease, but a poisoning, which made it hard to magically treat by anyone without a lot of skill in divine channeling, and freemen couldn’t generally afford anyone to see to that.
"How much did you get for the amulet?" Acalia asked, her voice neutral.
Terra's hands twisted in her tattered skirt. "Twenty silver pieces. Enough for three weeks of medicine, if I'm careful with the dosing." Her eyes darted between them, desperate and calculating. "I… I can tell you who I sold it to. Maybe you can-”
Acaliah sighed. “We don’t have time for this. That army is going to march in a day, two at most. We take her to Adeliah. Maybe she’ll take that information as payment, and we can track it down later.”
Terra's face crumpled at her words. "She'll kill me," she whispered, the certainty in her voice chilling.
Rashon shifted uncomfortably, the ceiling pressing against his bent neck. “No, she won’t,” he said. “That isn’t how she is.” Rashon watched the sick woman—Mira—struggle for breath, a wet rattle accompanying each inhalation. The wasting sickness showed no mercy, eating away at the lungs until breathing itself became torture. He had watched too many die that way, helpless to ease their suffering.
"Acalia?" he rumbled, unsure what he was asking for. Mercy, perhaps. Or just acknowledgment that what they were doing was wrong, even if necessary.
Acalia's expression hardened, the scars on her face seeming more pronounced in the dim light. "If we don't stop the garrison, thousands will die. Her sister included. We’ll talk to Milaena… but she comes with us."
No matter how many times he saw it, the inside of Adeliah's wagon never stopped making him feel dazed and off balance with the way the interior stretched impossibly, defying the physical limitations of the modest vehicle they had entered. He walked past shelf-lined walls that shouldn't exist, laden with artifacts whose purposes Rashon couldn't begin to guess. They walked towards the merchant sorting through a collection of bizarre items, pushing Terra ahead of them. The air inside smelled of exotic spices and something else, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It reminded him of the arena before a fight, the metallic scent of anticipation and impending violence.
Terra stumbled to her knees as Daerreth pushed her forward, tears streaming down her face. Her bound hands trembled as she looked up at Adeliah, who hadn't bothered to turn around at their entrance. “I assume you weren’t able to find the amulet,” Adeliah said, continuing to sort through her belongings. “So you’ve brought me the thief instead.”
“Yes,” Rashon said. “We will track down your amulet. But we don’t have time.”
"Please, forgive me," Terra pleaded, her voice breaking with desperation. "I… I just fenced what I was given. I needed the money for medicine. I wouldn’t have taken anything that belongs to you, I wouldn’t ha—"
Adeliah held up a hand, silencing her without a word. The merchant moved with deliberate slowness, examining items on her shelves as Terra spoke, appearing barely interested in the woman's desperate explanation. She picked up a small crystal jar, held it to the light, then held it in her hands before finally turning to face them.
"My father’s amulet," she said simply, her eyes fixed on Terra. "Where is it now?"
"I sold it to a traveling merchant heading north," Terra said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "A man named Bren. He deals in curiosities for nobles in Ferronatus. I can describe him — tall, with a scar through his left eyebrow, missing two fingers on his right hand. You could find him there!"
Adeliah tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. Rashon shifted uncomfortably, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. “We can hunt that down, Lady Adeliah,” Acalia promised. “But we can’t do it in time. I hope that you will accept—”
"I am a practical business woman,” Adeliah finally said, her voice neutral. "These things happen in business. People steal from merchants… I know this. I accept that the amulet is gone."
Terra's shoulders sagged with visible relief, and Rashon felt a moment of surprise. That hope died as Adeliah continued, her tone cooling. "However, that amulet belonged not to me, but to my father… and no one steals a keepsake of my father. I cannot let such a thing go lightly. Bad for my reputation, you understand?"
Before anyone could react, Adeliah placed a clear glass jar on the table between them. Compared to most things here it was unremarkable — neither caked with magical symbols nor rich and luxurious, it would have looked perfectly at home being used to preserve fruits or herbs. Something about the aggressive way she placed it down however, made Rashon's instincts flare with warning.
"What are you going to do?" Acalia asked, her hand drifting to her sword hilt.
Adeliah smiled, the expression never reaching her eyes. "Nothing permanent. But stealing from me has to have consequences.”
The jar glowed with an eerie blue light that cast sharp shadows across Adeliah's face, making her features appear momentarily harsh in the stark light. Then Terra screamed. The sound rapidly transformed from terror to something higher pitched, more desperate, as her body began to shrink. The ropes binding her wrists fell away as she dwindled, her form reducing rapidly while her clothes remained full-sized, falling away from her diminishing body.
"What the fuck?" Daerreth whispered, taking an involuntary step back.
Rashon stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what his eyes were seeing. He had seen much magic in his life… Aetheric sorcery, divine channeling, and spiritual magic from his own people and Vashara. He had even had far more experience that he’d ever want to have with the blood sorcery of House Nightweave's mages. He had watched the elements obey the will of mortals, had seen men with the strength of dozens, and had even watched Vashara come back from the dead. In all of that time though, he had never seen anything quite like this.
Within seconds Terra stood naked among the pile of her fallen clothing, no larger than a mouse. Her tiny screams were now barely audible, a high-pitched keening that made Rashon's chest tighten. Even at her miniature size, Rashon could see every curve of her naked body, perfectly proportioned but impossibly small. The sick thought crossed his mind of what it would be like to hold such a helpless creature, to feel her entire body trembling in his palm. He could pinch her tiny limbs between his fingers, make her dance for his amusement, or simply close his fist and feel her squirm against his skin. The absolute power he would have over something so fragile and defenseless… it was like the dynamic he had with every other woman he had ever met, but magnified. None of them could stop him.
The disgust and shame at his thoughts swallowed him… this was not why his ancestors gave their lives for him! He was to be the best of them. He would not abuse that power. When his attention returned to what was going on, it was when Adeliah plucked the miniature woman from the pile of clothing with casual ease and dropped her into the jar. Terra's tiny fists pounded against the glass walls, her mouth open in a scream none of them could properly hear. Her diminutive nakedness added another layer of humiliation to the punishment, leaving her utterly exposed to their gaze.
"There," Adeliah said with satisfaction, screwing a lid onto the jar. "I believe the punishment should fit the crime. Now you can watch over my collection and ensure nothing else goes missing." She placed the jar on a shelf among dozens of other assorted items.
Rashon's massive hands clenched into fists at his sides, his stone-gray skin darkening with anger. This… made him uncomfortable. And he had delivered Terra to this fate. His own distracting, lustful thoughts only made it worse… made him feel even more responsible for Terra’s sorry state. "How long will you keep her like this?" Rashon asked, a hint of a growl in his voice.
Adeliah waved a dismissive hand. "The enchantment sustains her. She doesn't need food or water or air.”
"That doesn't answer the question," Rashon spat, persisting.
"I’m not going to hurt her," Adeliah replied with a shrug. "I’ll keep her here until enough people have seen her that word has gotten around. And until she has learned her lesson about stealing. Then I'll restore her.” She looked at Rashon. “You disagree? I believe the Empire’s punishment for theft is permanent slavery, and removal of fingers. This keeps her intact, and it's temporary… it's downright merciful by comparison."
Rashon's massive hands clenched into fists, but what could he say? That was… true. Nothing that she said was wrong. And they needed that drug. The fate of thousands outweighed the suffering of one criminal thief, even if she did fence goods for Imperials.
The merchant seemed to sense his discomfort, turning to fix him with her penetrating gaze. "Come now, Rashon. You've killed men in battle. Is this truly worse than any of that?"
The question struck at the heart of his unease. Was it worse? The men he had killed in the arena, in the rebellion—they were dead, their suffering ended in moments of violence. Terra would live, would feel, would suffer, possibly for weeks or months, sustained by magic that denied her even the mercy of physical collapse.
"Different," he managed to say, the word emerging as a low rumble from his chest. "Quick death is... cleaner."
"Cleaner for whom?" Adeliah asked, arching one perfect eyebrow. "For the killer, certainly. Less mess, less responsibility. The dead don't haunt us with their continued suffering, do they? They just... go away." She turned her attention back to the jar, where Terra had slumped against the glass, her tiny shoulders shaking with what must have been sobs. "I prefer honesty in my punishments. Let her live with the consequences of her choices. I’m not a monster. I’ll let her go."
He had no answer for that. At least Terra lived. At least there was the promise of eventual release.
At least she wasn’t going to use Terra the way his darkest thoughts wanted him to.
Acalia cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable with the situation as well. He wondered if she disliked the philosophy, or merely the tension. "We had a deal," she said firmly. "We've delivered the thief. Now we need the dreamshade."
Adeliah's lips curved in a smile. "Of course. Business is business, after all." She produced a box, opening it to show that it was filled with glimmering powder. "As promised, all the dreamshade extract I have. It should be enough to put the entire garrison to sleep," she said, holding the box up. "Use it wisely. It’s my entire stock, and it will be difficult to get anymore."
Rashon reached out, taking the box carefully between his massive fingers. It felt heavier than it should for something so small… or maybe that was just his conscience weighing it down.
"Thank you," Acalia said finally, the words sounding forced from her lips. "We have preparations to make."
Adeliah inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Of course." She flicked her fingers. “Go. Save the day.”
As they filed out of the wagon, the outside air felt blessedly normal and fresh after the cramped, supernaturally large wagon. Rashon passed the box of dreamshade to Acalia, no longer comfortable carrying it in his massive hands. If he thought too long about what he’d just done, he might crush it.
His mind remained filled with the image of Terra trapped in her glass prison, her tiny fists beating against walls she could never break. They had done this — delivered a desperate woman to this fate in the name of the greater good. How many more compromises would they make before this rebellion was through? How many more pieces of their souls would they sacrifice on the altar of necessity?
He closed his fingers carefully around the box, again feeling its weight. One thief's freedom for hundreds of slaves. A simple equation, a necessary sacrifice. So why did it feel like they had given up something far more important than they had gained?
Rashon would talk to Milaena personally about her sister… make sure that the priestess saw to it she was taken care of. It was the least he could do… but first, he needed to prepare for war.
He needed another virgin.
Rashon had left Adeliah’s wagon hours ago and he was still walking the streets of Westcreek, his massive form casting long shadows in the bright sunlight as Brightmarch wound rapidly towards it close. The dreamshade extract was secure, locked away in Milaena's pouches until they were ready to use it, but there was one more preparation needed before they could move against the garrison. The glove of deflection that was still affixed to his right hand needed fuel before they were right to fight… and that meant he needed a virgin.
He just hadn’t anticipated how difficult finding one was going to be.
Most of the women in this city had been slaves, and they had virtually all been raped. For freewomen, getting rid of your virginity and making yourself as sexually undesirable as possible was a priority if you didn’t want one of the Citizens to catch his eye on you and decide you would make a good slave. The cursed glove sat heavy on his right hand, its runes dormant without the blood needed to awaken them… and he wasn’t sure where he was going to get it. Most of the people he had approached to ask had laughed, outright laughed at the suggestion they might have their hymen or know anyone who did.
The sun climbed higher, beating down on Rashon's stone-gray skin as he considered his options. He could go into combat without the magic. He had done it many times before, after all. The thing was, the last time he had fought the Empire without it, Acalia and Vashara had been captured and put through hell. He was still uncomfortable with some of the bargains they had made with Adeliah, but her assistance was invaluable, and he didn’t want to waste it. With just a drop of spent virginity, swords and spears would slide off his skin like water. Without it, he would be vulnerable… and that meant Acalia would be vulnerable too.
He was still considering what else he could do when Acalia found him. The beautiful tiefling's lithe form materialized from an alley's shadows, her horns catching the light. "Still hunting?" she asked, reading his frustration in the tense set of his massive shoulders. Rashon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The glove felt heavy on his hand. He hated having to think about such things, hated reducing women to their sexual status, hated the entire damned Empire for creating a world where such considerations were necessary.
"No luck?" Acalia pressed, falling into step beside him. Despite her much smaller stature she matched his pace easily, moving with the fluid grace of a practiced warrior. It was hard sometimes to remember that she wasn’t small or delicate, almost everyone seemed like a ceramic doll to the massive goliath.
"None," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying no further than her ears. "Slaves all violated. Many times. No one left."
Acalia's face hardened, the scars along her arms standing out white against her blue skin. Rashon knew she understood all too well. "I… do have an idea," she said, her voice dropping lower as they passed a group of freed slaves rebuilding a storefront. "But I don’t think you’ll like it.”
Rashon looked down at her, noting the distant look in her eyes. She’d looked like that earlier today, when they had brought Terra to Adeliah to pay for her crimes. She’d looked like that two weeks ago, on the night they had decided to kill Harrick. Acalia’s eyes had looked like that too often recently. "Tell me," he said simply.
The dungeon beneath the governor's mansion stank of fear and urine. The cells that had once held slaves now contained a half-dozen Citizen women in formerly-fine dresses, now stained and torn. Their hair, once elaborately styled, hung in tangled strands around faces smudged with dirt and tears. They cowered at the far wall when Rashon's massive form blocked the doorway, his shadow falling across them like a physical weight. The stone floor was cold beneath their feet and the walls damp with condensation. Rashon would have considered these conditions intolerably barbaric for housing animals, let alone people.
Yet, they had condemned how many people to be here?
Rashon frowned as he looked over this. This was Acalia’s idea. In the chaos of the rebellion, most of the imperial soldiers had been killed… but not all of the Citizens. Some of them still lived. Some of the slaves who had taken charge and been proactive had rounded up some of the wives and daughters of the aristocracy and locked them away both for leverage and, ironically, for their protection from the vengeance of freed slaves.
And Citizens didn’t marry for love, but status. Some of them would still be virgins.
There was a cruel logic to it. This way, they could contribute a small bit to the safety of the people they had oppressed. While they had attended attended parties in silk dresses with the Governor, their slaves had been being killed or raped. Even so, it made him feel uncomfortably close to the actions of a citizen himself, doing this. It was using the oppressor's methods — reducing people to their utility, taking without consent. It felt like becoming what they fought against.
But the logic was undeniable.
"The big one's here to rape us," one whispered, her voice breaking. "They're going to take turns." The woman was perhaps thirty, with the soft hands and unmarked skin of someone who had never known labor. Her fine silk dress, now filthy and torn at the hem, would have cost more than a slave's life in the markets. The jewels that had once adorned her ears and throat were gone, likely taken by the freed slaves as small compensation for generations of suffering.
One of the slaves who stood guarding them laughed, the sound sharp and without humor. "If we wanted that, we wouldn't have locked you up for protection," he said, stepping around Rashon's massive form. "We’d have just tossed you outside. They would do so much worse after what your kind did to their daughters, their sisters, their wives."
The women pressed tighter against the wall as Rashon entered the cell, his bulk making the space seem even smaller. The cell had been built to hold at least fifty slaves, packed so tightly they could barely sit, let alone lie down. With only six occupants, it was practically spacious, yet these women acted as if they were being crushed by the mere presence of a goliath in their midst.
Now this terror was familiar to him. He watched the way the women shrank from him, the rapid rise and fall of their breasts as they hyperventilated with fear. This was the truth behind everyone’s worst thoughts of him, the truth behind the lies… he would take any woman he wanted, and no one could stop him, and every man and woman knew it. Right now, he could grab any of these noble women and pin her down while the others watched helplessly. These pampered Citizens who had never known a day of real hardship, would be reduced to cowering meat before his strength. The thought of claiming them one by one, of showing them exactly what their slaves had endured, made his blood pound with dark satisfaction. They would scream so beautifully, their refined voices breaking as he split them open with his massive cock.
And they wouldn’t be able to do a single thing to stop him. That was what about him disgusted them so. The fact that he wasn’t there to rape them meant that just made him angry, and for just a moment, he allowed himself to think that it would serve them right if they manifested their worst fears like that… but as pent up as he was, he didn’t need to fuck right now. He just needed fuel for his glove.
It hadn’t been hard for Acalia to convince the slaves to let them do this, not after she explained why she needed it, and how it would help keep Westcreek safe. By the Abyss, most of the people in town would have slit these women’s throats if it would buy them an extra day of freedom.
"Please," one sobbed, a young woman barely out of girlhood. Her blonde hair might have been beautiful once, before days of captivity had left it lank and greasy. "My father will pay whatever ransom—"
Rashon cut her off with a gesture of his massive hand. "We do not want gold. Something else." His deep voice rumbled through the small space, making the women flinch. He held up his gloved hand, the runes etched into the leather seeming to absorb the dim light. "Need to know which of you is untouched."
The women's faces registered confusion, then horror as understanding dawned. The youngest began to weep softly, while the oldest—a woman with steel-gray hair and the bearing of someone accustomed to command—lifted her chin defiantly.
"How dare you," she spat, her voice trembling despite her attempt at authority. "Do you know who we are? I am Magister Hallen. When Imperial forces return—"
"When Imperial forces return, they'll find your bodies hanging from the city gates if you don't cooperate," one of the watching slaves interrupted coldly. "You live by our mercy, nothing more."
Rashon glanced at the slave, momentarily surprised by the harshness of her threat. He could understand it, though. "No rape. Just a finger," Rashon clarified, his voice deliberately lowered to seem less threatening. "No permanent harm."
None of the women would speak to him directly, turning instead to Acalia with their pleas and denials as she stood behind them. It was as if they couldn't conceive of addressing the goliath as an equal, even now when he held their fate in his massive hands. Rashon felt a surge of bitter irony. Even now they couldn't see him as a full person that was worthy of direct address.
"Just tell the man if you’re a virgin, and we’ll be gone in thirty seconds,” Acalia said, her patience visibly thinning. Rashon waited, but none of them volunteered. He sighed, and Acalia shrugged. “I guess we check them all, then.”
The first woman screamed and fought as he forced her against the wall, his massive hand easily pinning both her wrists above her head. She kicked and bit, but it was like a child attacking a mountain. Her struggles pressed her body against his as her breasts heaved with terror and exertion, and despite the ugliness of what he was doing he felt his treacherous cock began to harden at the contact. His body responded to the woman's proximity, regardless of the circumstances… enjoying just how helpless she was beneath his strength. Her silk dress tore further as she struggled, revealing the soft, unmarked skin beneath: Skin that had never known the kiss of a whip or the brand of an owner's mark.
Her struggles only pressed her body more firmly against his, her breasts crushing against his chest as she writhed uselessly in his grip. It spoke the truth… that he had power over her. That he could do anything to her right now, and she couldn't stop him. Hell, the former slaves who now guarded these women would probably cheer him on. The thought of ripping away her fine dress entirely, of spreading her legs wide and taking what he wanted while she sobbed and begged, sent heat coursing through him. These Citizens had watched countless slaves violated for their entertainment. How fitting it would be to give them a taste of that helplessness.
But he hadn’t taken Acalia when she was given to him. He wasn’t going to take advantage of these women either… no more than was absolutely necessary.
Rashon pressed on, and with his gloved hand, he roughly pushed her skirts up and thrust a finger between her legs. His finger slid into her and she screamed… completely unnecessarily loudly, in Rashon’s opinion. He waggled his finger, feeling for the barrier that wasn't there. The woman sobbed as he withdrew, humiliation and terror warring on her face.
He moved to the next woman, who didn't fight, just closed her eyes and trembled as he performed the same check, finding her equally experienced. Her submission somehow felt worse than the first woman's resistance.
The third woman had dark, curly hair, and she stared at him with naked hatred as he approached. This one held herself differently, had the bearing of someone accustomed to power. A high-ranking official's daughter, perhaps?
"Animal," she spat, even as his finger penetrated her.
Rashon felt the resistance of her hymen and nodded to Acalia. "This one."
The older woman's face paled, but she maintained her defiant glare even as Rashon pressed deeper, breaking the thin membrane. She didn't cry out, didn't give him the satisfaction of showing pain, but her eyes burned with impotent fury as he withdrew his bloodied finger.
Rashon carefully withdrew, careful not to waste the blood by brushing his palm with it. Even so, Rashon's skin tingled where it touched the artifact, the magic quivering with a hungry edge now. “You monster,” the woman snarled at him.
"It's better than you deserve," he said softly to the woman, whose dignified bearing had crumbled into silent tears. "At least you can give back something." He turned away from the sobs and curses of the captive Citizens, unwilling to meet their fear any longer.
As they left the cell, one of the freed slaves locked it behind them and Acalia fell into step at his side, her golden eyes searching his face. "Does it bother you?" she asked, her voice neutral, neither judging nor sympathetic.
Rashon looked at his glove, now fully ready for him to close his fist and enter battle. The runes pulsed with power, ready to activate if he were only to clench his fists. It was cruel magic, but it was a cruel world. Rashon thought of the countless slaves who had died in these very dungeons, of women violated in ways far worse than what he had just done. "They watched slaves raped for years," he said flatly. "Never stopped it. Never spoke against it. This is justice."
He almost believed it. The words tasted right on his tongue, satisfied the rage that had sustained him through years of captivity. But as they climbed the stairs back to the light, the woman's terror followed him like a shadow. He hated it, but what choice did they have? The Empire understood only strength, only domination. To fight with clean hands was to lose, and losing meant chains for everyone once more.
Rashon flexed his hand softly inside the glove, feeling the power humming beneath his skin. If becoming a monster was the price of freedom for the people he cared about, then so be it. He would pay it gladly and search for his soul after the war was won.
Under the cover of darkness, the six companions moved through the woods barely two hundred feet from the limits of the garrison’s walls. The red moon Sanguis had just dawned and hung low in the sky, casting an eerie crimson glow across the landscape that seemed fitting for their grim task. Guards patrolled the battlements, their torches creating moving points of light against the star-filled sky, unaware of the group of rebels prowling just nearby. Rashon would have preferred to do this during Truedark, but it had taken them nearly four days to arrive here… Acalia thought there was a real chance that come False Dawn the garrison’s retaliatory force would march. They couldn’t wait… the dim red light would have to be concealment enough.
"You're certain this will do it?" Daerreth asked as the two of them crouched beside a well that had been bored down into the ground. It was a simple construction, just an exploratory well that they had dug at some point during the establishment of this outpost back when it was an army camp instead of a permanent fortress. A circular stone wall surrounding a deep shaft that plunged into darkness below. It had been sealed by stone, but he had carefully lifted them one by one with strength no human man could match. Now it gaped open like a hungry mouth waiting to be fed.
Rashon shrugged. “The water connects. Is all I know.”
Milaena nodded, her expression solemn in the crimson moonlight. Her silver-white hair was hidden beneath a hood, but her eyes reflected the red with an unnatural gleam. "Dreamshade ought to do the job,” she confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper. "The garrison sits atop a network of natural channels that all feed into the same aquifer. This well taps directly into that network. From there, the gas should rise upward.”
Rashon trusted her assessment. Milaena was thorough in everything she did, and her understanding of this medicine was far beyond his. If she said it was going to work, it was going to work. Besides… the die was cast. What else could they do? The army was soon to leave. Besides standing in their way in the middle of the road, he wasn’t sure what else they could do.
Rashon felt the weight of the glove on his hand, the magic within it dormant until he chose to activate it. The citizen woman's blood was dry now, flaking against his fingers as he flexed them. He could become nearly unstoppable… but only nearly. Not enough to stop an army.
“Who does the honors?” Acalia asked.
Rashon nodded. “I do it,” he said. Acalia handed Rashon the vial of dreamshade extract, its contents shimmering with an unnatural light that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. The vessel was warm against his skin, as if the liquid inside generated its own heat. “How much?”
Milaena shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea. It’s big down there. Better use it all and hope it's enough.”
Rashon uncorked the vial and poured the powdered poison into the well, watching as it disappeared into the darkness below. The sprinkle made no sound as it hit the water far below, leaving him to hope it was doing anything at all. “How long will it take?”
Once again, Milaena could only shrug. “Ten minutes or so before it reaches the garrison and starts to spread, but we might not see a thing. Who knows how long before we know.”
Feeling ill at ease, Rashon leaned back against a tree and waited, keeping his eyes on the garrison as his heart beat with tension. At first, he saw nothing unusual — just the same torches moving along the battlements, the same dark windows in the stone walls. It was maybe five minutes before he noticed it: A faint mist beginning to rise from within the fortress. It emerged from windows and arrow slits, flowing like spectral fingers through cracks in the mortar and under doors. The mist spread slowly at first, then faster, creeping along the ground inside the fortress walls before dissipating into the night air. Through one of the larger windows, Rashon heard shouting.
"It's working," Valdis whispered, her eyes wide. "Gods, it’s working!"
Rashon felt the glove pulse on his hand, as if eager for the coming battle. In a few hours, when the poison had done its work, they would enter the fortress. They would free any slaves, collect weapons and supplies, and leave nothing for the Imperial reinforcement to the province but empty walls and stolen stores.
With a thrill, Rashon watched as guard after guards standing on battlements collapsed, their torches as their bodies slumped unconscious against the stone parapet. One by one the moving torches on the walls stilled, their bearers succumbing to the poisonous gas that spread through the garrison's air.
For a moment, the six of them just watched, silent as tombstones and hungry as wolves. The torchlights along the garrison wall winked out one after the other as the men holding them dropped them. Some of them fell down to crash against the stone, others slumping and guttering as if the flames themselves were dying of the poison. In the rising red haze of the moon, the effect was macabre as staring at the inside of the tomb. Rashon felt his heart pounding so loud he was sure the guards inside could hear it — except they were already dropping, probably begging or foaming at the mouth, thrashing like fish in a toxic stream.
Daerreth pumped a fist. “This is actually going to do it!” he whispered. He sounded thrilled and hopeful, glad that they weren’t going to have to take Vashara into battle against the garrison again.
Valdis was crying. Not sobbing, but tears ran down her cheeks in relief. Milaena caught her hand and squeezed it, just once, before turning her gaze back to the walls. Milaena was praying, lips moving in silent rhythm to her words.
Acalia sat there as well, watching and savoring the moment. "If it’s making it out the top, it must be settling in the lower levels, too. Getting into the barracks, the mess hall… hell, even the supplies for the quartermaster." The mist spread, curling along the garrison's walls, slow and steady, swallowing whole the archers who tried to stagger for help or raise alarms. The guards were almost all down now… the screams they had heard from inside had gone silent.
Rashon watched every second, engraving it in his memory so he’d never forget what winning felt like. For the first time in a long time hope was real and right in front of them, and Rashon could almost taste it. He let himself believe, just a little, that the Empire could fall. “Keep sharp,” Acalia said. “It’s not over yet.” But even she was smiling, just at the corners of her mouth, almost as if she had to fight the urge.
The others waited, barely breathing. "How long until it's safe to enter?" Daerreth asked, his voice tight with anticipation. “How long will it take to clear?”
"There is… more of it than I expected,” Milaena replied. "I’d guess an hour after we stop seeing gas coming out of the windows. A couple of hours? Entering sooner than that would put us at risk of succumbing ourselves."
Rashon nodded, settling back on his haunches to wait. Patience was a virtue. The ability to endure, to outlast, to wait for the perfect moment to strike. A few hours was nothing compared to the years he had waited for vengeance against the Empire.
The mist continued to spread through the garrison, flowing like water into every corner and crevice. Through an open gate, Rashon glimpsed a courtyard where soldiers lay sprawled on the ground, felled mid-step by the invisible agent. None moved, all apparently locked in the deep sleep Adeliah had promised. In the end, it took more than three hours for the poison to begin to disperse, and Sanguis was setting and Lumaria was just starting to light the horizon by the time they started to approach the garrison. The fortress stood silent, no movement visible on its walls. The gate hung partially open: Someone had tried to flee but collapsed before making it through. Rashon pushed the heavy iron gate wider, the hinges groaning in protest.
Inside, the courtyard was littered with bodies. Imperial soldiers lay where they had fallen, some reaching for weapons, others clutching their throats. "The gas should be mostly gone by now," Milaena said, though she still covered her mouth and nose with a cloth. "But don't breathe deeply."
Rashon's nostrils flared as he scented the air through the cloth over his face. None of the men were moving. He stepped carefully over the corpse of a young soldier whose face was frozen in a grimace of pain, eyes wide and bloodshot. Crimson trails dried from his nostrils and tear ducts. Rashon felt a growing unease. The bodies... they were too still. A guard slumped against the well had his eyes open, the whites turned red with burst blood vessels. Another lay face-down, fingers dug into the dirt as if he'd tried to crawl away from an invisible attacker.
"Something's wrong," Acalia murmured, her voice muffled by the cloth covering her lower face. "These men aren't sleeping."
Daerreth knelt beside one of the bodies, turning it over with the tip of his dagger. The dead man's face was contorted in a rictus of pain, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a final grimace. Dark blood had dried in crusty lines from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes.
"Dreamshade isn't supposed to do this..." Milaena said, her usually serene voice tight with horror. "It induces unconsciousness, not... not..."
They moved through the courtyard toward the main keep, stepping over corpses. The bodies lay in postures that told their own story. Some of the men had died quickly, collapsing where they stood, while others had clearly suffered, crawling toward exits in their final moments. A woman in a mage’s garb had fallen across the threshold of one of the courtyard’s doors, pinning the door open.
"This wasn't what Adeliah promised," Vashara whispered, her voice tight with horror. "She said they would sleep, not... this."
Milaena’s face was grim. “I… I made a mistake…” she said, her face pale and horrified. "The difference between poison and medicine is dosage…" The priestess looked stunned. “I was worried we wouldn’t have enough. I didn’t think about what having them sit it in for so long would do…”
Acalia's face was grim as she surveyed the scene. "Search for survivors. Check every corner of the fortress.”
Rashon stared in shock… but he doubted they would find anyone alive. The dreamshade had been thorough in its work. Still, he nodded and moved toward the main keep with the others, his massive frame casting long shadows in the torchlight. Most of the wall sconces had burned out, but a few still flickered, casting eerie, dancing light across the scene of slaughter.
Inside the keep, more bodies awaited them. Soldiers dead at their posts, clerks slumped over ledgers, servants collapsed beside half-completed tasks. In the mess hall, a dozen men sat at tables, heads resting on arms as if they had merely fallen asleep during their meal. Only the blood that had streamed from their eyes and noses revealed the truth.
They split up, each taking a section of the keep's ground floor. Rashon moved through the eastern wing, pushing open doors to reveal more scenes of death. A small chapel where the garrison priest lay face-down before an altar, outstretched hands reaching toward a golden icon of Valorian as if begging the God of Heroes for salvation that never came. No one had been spared, not even the animals. In the stables, horses lay in their stalls, massive bodies bloated in death. Cats that had kept the granaries free of vermin were scattered throughout the fortress, their small forms curled in final agony. Even rats and mice had succumbed, tiny corpses littering dark corners.
They regrouped in the central hall, each bearing the same grim news — death everywhere, no survivors.
Then they reached the slave pens below.
Rashon's heart grew heavier with each step. The stairs led down into darkness, the air growing colder and danker as they moved deeper beneath the fortress. Valdis summoned a small ball of magical light that floated ahead of them, illuminating the grim scene that awaited.
The cells were filled with bodies—men, women, and children who had been awaiting transport to larger slave markets, now forever free in the worst possible way. Their faces were frozen in expressions of agony, blood leaking from their eyes and noses. Unlike the soldiers above, many of these people had died huddled together, holding one another in their final moments of terror and pain.
In one cell, a woman had gathered three other women against her, the four of them curled together as if they were trying to shield themselves from the invisible killer that had filled their lungs. In another, a strong man probably destined for the mines lay with his arms outstretched, perhaps trying to comfort the younger slaves who had died reaching for his hands. Everywhere the evidence of their suffering was plain to see: The claw marks on throats as they fought to breathe, the blood-streaked faces, the postures of desperate agony.
"Fuck," Daerreth breathed, his usual bravado absent. "We did this."
The words struck Rashon like a physical blow. Yes, they had done this. Not with blade or bow or magic, and the blood waited on his glove unused and unneeded. Instead, a poison had taken them all. They had killed from a distance, never seeing their victims' faces as they died, never hearing their pleas for mercy or final prayers. It was a coward's killing, the sort of indiscriminate slaughter the Empire itself wreaked… and they hadn’t even done it with malice. Just stupidity. Rashon stood among the dead slaves, his massive frame suddenly seeming to shrink. They had deserved better than to die choking on poisoned air in a lightless cell, never knowing why or who had killed them.
"We killed them all," he said, his voice hollow. "Everyone. Guards. Slaves. Everyone."
Acalia moved to stand beside him, her slender hand resting on his massive arm in a gesture of comfort that felt undeserved. "We didn't know," she said softly, though her golden eyes were bright with unshed tears.
Milaena looked like she wanted to cry. "It was only supposed to make them unconscious.”
"Does that matter to them?" Rashon asked, gesturing to the dead children. "Does that bring them back?"
"We should have known better," Milaena added softly, her usual serenity replaced by a haunted look. "We should have tested it somehow, understood its properties before using it on such a scale. I should have done that."
Acalia paced like a caged animal, her scarred face twisted with conflicting emotions. Her horns caught the torchlight as she moved, casting strange, dancing shadows across the walls. "Maybe we should have, maybe not. I don't know what else we could have done." She stopped by the window, looking out at the bodies they had already begun to carry from the slave pens for burial. "The garrison is gone. The slaves in Westcreek are safe."
"At what cost?" Vashara asked, looking up from where she sat, her silver eyes red-rimmed. "Those people down there… they were innocent!"
The accusation hung in the air, undeniable in its truth. They had struck a blow against the Empire, yes, but at the cost of the very people they claimed to fight for. The realization sat like a stone in Rashon's gut, heavy and immovable.
Daerreth put an arm around Vashara's shoulders, though his own face was haunted by what they'd seen. "They were already dead, love," he said, his voice gentler than Rashon had ever heard it. "You know what happens to slaves shipped to House Nightweave. This might have been more merciful than the alternative."
Rashon had remained silent until now, the weight of hundreds of deaths pressing down on him like a mountain. He had seen enough of House Nightweave's cruelty to know Daerreth may well be right. Even so… "Merciful?" he finally rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. "Choking on poison? Bleeding from their eyes? I think not."
Daerreth had no answer for that, his momentary certainty crumbling under Rashon's question.
"They were planning to move against Westcreek tonight, or at dawn," Acalia said, her eyes haunted. "We saw the wagons they were loading, the caravan they were putting together. They would have surrounded it and made examples of any slave who tried to organize anything. Public torture and execution for them. Recapture for the rest and sent off to a life in hell."
Rashon watched her, recognizing the burden she carried. In many ways, she was the one they all trusted to lead... and to her, that meant taking the responsibility for what had happened here. She had to make sure it mattered. She wasn't wrong. Had they not stopped the garrison, Westcreek would have fallen just as they feared. The slaughter would have been complete and merciless.
"So we killed hundreds to save thousands," Valdis said, her scholarly mind calculating the cold equation. "Is that the justification we're comfortable settling on?"
The question wasn't meant to be cruel, but it cut through their attempted rationalizations like a blade. Was it enough? Could any calculation of lives saved versus lives lost truly justify what they had done?
They sank into silence for a long time. "We should bury them," Milaena said finally, breaking the heavy silence. "These poor people... they deserve better than to rot in these cells."
Acalia nodded, her scarred face tight with emotion she rarely displayed. "We'll dig graves outside the walls. Give them what dignity we can." It was a small gesture, inadequate against the weight of what they had done, but it was all they could offer now. Rashon moved forward, bending to gather the body of a woman in his massive hands. She weighed almost nothing to the massive goliath, her bones feeling as delicate as a bird's beneath cool skin. He had killed men before. Killed them in battle, or in the arena, or in his desperate escape attempts. He had never killed anyone like this. Never the innocent, the helpless, those who had no chance to fight back or flee. Never killed at a distance, impersonally, like a magistrate passing a writ of execution.
He would have rather had to crush their throats himself if that’s what it came down to.
As they carried the first of the bodies up the stairs and into the moonlight, Rashon wondered if this was the price of rebellion. What alternative did they have? To surrender was to accept chains again, not just for themselves but for everyone who looked to them for leadership. To fight with clean hands was to lose, and losing meant the Empire's boot on their necks once more as well.
There were no easy answers, no path forward that didn't lead through blood and compromise. All that he could think to do was remember these dead, carry the weight of their responsibility, and try to ensure their sacrifice, unwilling though it was, had meaning.
It had to be enough.
Most of the others worked to search the garrison and collect weapons while Rashon carried bodies and dug graves. It wasn’t until the night was approaching Silverlight that Vashara came to get him and bring him back into the fortress. Valdis, it seemed, had found something.
In the lower levels of the garrison, the mage had discovered a chamber unlike any other in the fortress. Glass tanks lined the walls, filled with cloudy liquid and containing... things. Rashon stared in horror at malformed creatures. Some of them were vaguely humanoid, while others were too misshapen to even pretend at that form. All were dead, floating lifelessly in their tanks, their twisted bodies preserved in the viscous fluid.
The chamber itself was a jarring contrast to the utilitarian design of the rest of the garrison. Polished metal tables gleamed under crystal illumination globes that cast a sterile white light across the room. Delicate silver tools, glass tubing, and various alchemical apparatuses were arranged with meticulous precision. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing leather-bound journals and specimen jars holding preserved organs.
"What in the abyss are these?" Daerreth whispered, his face pale beneath his fiery hair. He approached one of the tanks, peering at the creature suspended within. This one seemed like it might have been human once upon a time, for it still had the general shape of a man. Its skin had turned translucent however, and it revealed black and pulsing organs beneath. Its arms ended not in hands but in curved bone blades that looked sharp enough to slice through armor.
Rashon moved closer to another tank where a creature with too many limbs floated in greenish fluid. Its face was a nightmare with multiple jaws arranged in concentric circles, each filled with needle-like teeth. The skin was mottled and scaled in patches, as if someone had tried to combine human with reptile and failed horrifically.
"I know what they are," Valdis said, her voice breaking. The small mage approached one of the tanks with trembling steps, her hand hovering just above the glass surface without touching it. Tears streamed down her face as she stared at the monstrosity within. "These are the monsters that destroyed my village. The ones that killed my family." She turned to face them, her petite frame shaking with emotion rarely displayed by the reserved mage. "These are Iron Lady Seraphina Ashfire's creations. Living weapons made through her alchemy."
Rashon remembered fragments of Valdis's story, shared during quiet nights around campfires. Her childhood home, destroyed while she was away studying at the academy. An attack not by Imperial troops but by something worse: Monsters that moved faster than natural beings, that killed with unnatural strength and savagery. She had returned to find only corpses, her entire family and community slaughtered by nightmares out of a madman’s imagination.
Milaena moved to comfort Valdis, placing a gentle hand on the younger woman's shoulder.
"I can’t believe they are sending them here,” Valdis said quietly. “They mostly use these things for conquest, unleash them into enemy territory. If they are sending Horrors into the provinces now, then they are trying to bring everything more firmly under the control of the throne.”
Rashon moved slowly around the room, examining the twisted forms. Most appeared to be crafted from human stock, bodies altered and deformed through alchemical processes beyond his understanding. The thought that these had once been people, probably slaves, made bile rise in his throat. They had been turned into utter monsters that even Malachar would blanch to think about. Thankfully they were all dead, killed by the same poison that had killed everyone else.
"Empire is making control more personal," he rumbled, his deep voice echoing in the chamber. "Reaching further. Controlling more directly." He had seen the Empire's methods evolve over the years of his captivity. First came the soldiers with their swords and discipline. Then came the collars and the blood magic that he had worn, used to control those who resisted. Then the Painless legions. Now, this was the next step: Reshaping flesh itself to create weapons that needed no loyalty, only direction.
"We should destroy this place," Milaena said quietly. "Burn everything. None of it should remain for when Imperial reinforcements arrive."
Valdis nodded, her face set with determination despite the tears still drying on her cheeks. "I can help with that. Fire hot enough to melt glass and stone."
Rashon watched as the others prepared to obliterate all evidence of the laboratory and its twisted contents. He should have felt satisfaction—they had discovered the true depths of the Empire's evil, had prevented an atrocity before it could begin. Instead, he felt only a hollow emptiness where certainty should have been. Their destruction of the garrison, even with what it had cost them, had done at least some good.
It still felt hollow.
The moons had been down for a few hours by the time the last grave was dug, and the only light Rashon worked by was provided by torches. His massive hands, capable of crushing a man's skull, now gently arranged the body of the last woman in a shallow grave. Her face was peaceful in death, though the dried blood around her eyes and nose told the truth of her passing. She couldn’t have been older than twenty.
Milaena moved from grave to grave, performing last rites in a soft, melodic voice that carried on the night air. "May Saphyria protect you. May Valorian guide your spirit to the Valorous Halls, where no chains bind and no whips fall," the priestess intoned, her white-gold hair flat in the dead light of the empty sky. "May you find the freedom in death that was denied you in life."
The words were meant to comfort, to give meaning to senseless death, but Rashon found little solace in them. What god would welcome souls dispatched so carelessly, poisoned by those who claimed to fight for their freedom? What hall of heroes would open its doors to those who died choking on tainted air, never knowing why or who had killed them?
Rashon's own prayers were simpler. They were just a simple, emotional appeal to ancestors he barely remembered, asking them to welcome these strangers who died in chains as he nearly had. In the mountains where he was born, his people had believed that those who died without proper burial became lost, their spirits wandering endlessly, unable to find rest or rebirth. He had forgotten many of the proper rituals: They had been beaten out of him during his early years of captivity. He just remembered enough to murmur a few ancient words. "Guide them home," he whispered in the tongue of the mountain clans. "Show them the path through darkness."
Forty-seven graves in all. Forty-seven innocent lives ended by their hands, as surely as if they had put knives to throats. Men and women who had already endured so much, children who had known nothing but captivity. Rashon's shoulders ached from the labor, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the weight pressing down on his spirit.
He worked methodically as he filled the final grave. Acalia approached as he worked, her footsteps nearly silent on the soft earth. She stood beside him in silence for a time, watching as his shovel moved with tireless rhythm. For all her ferocity in battle and commanding presence, the tiefling looked small beside Rashon's massive frame, her horns barely reaching his chest.
"You've been quiet all night," she finally said.
Rashon continued working, not trusting himself to speak. What could he say that wouldn't sound like hollow justification or meaningless regret? They had made their choice when they poured the poison into the well. Everything after was just consequences, just the price paid by others for their decision.
Acalia sighed and placed a hand on his arm—a gesture that would have earned anyone else a broken wrist, but from her he allowed it. They had history, he and Acalia. Both slaves, both fighters, both survivors who carried scars visible and hidden. If anyone could understand the darkness churning inside him, it was her.
"We struck a blow against the empire today, Rashon," she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "A significant one. I hate how it happened, but those people in Westcreek are safe now because of what we did."
Rashon paused in his labor, leaning on his shovel as he looked down at her scarred face. The moonlight softened her features, making her look younger, more vulnerable than she allowed herself to appear in daylight. For a moment, he could see the woman she might have been if the Empire hadn't cut the wings from her back and thrown her into the fighting pits.
"How many innocents can die before we become what we fight?" he asked, his voice raw.
The question hung between them, unanswerable. They had killed Imperial soldiers without remorse, had celebrated victories won through bloodshed and violence. But this was different. These slaves had been their people, fellow victims of the Empire's cruelty. In killing them, even accidentally, they had crossed a line that made Rashon question everything they were fighting for.
Acalia had no answer for him. Instead, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him as far as they would go. The gesture was so unexpected, so unlike her usual reserved demeanor, that Rashon froze momentarily. Then, slowly, he set down his shovel and placed one massive hand on her armored back. They stood like that for a long moment, two warriors who had seen too much death, who carried too much guilt, finding brief comfort in shared grief. Rashon felt tears on his cheeks for the first time since his capture years ago, and he didn't try to hide them as he held Acalia against his side. Her strength somehow made his burden lighter, if only for a moment.
"We do what we must," she said finally, her voice muffled against his chest. "And we carry the burden and we live with it."
Simple words, but they carried the weight of hard-won wisdom. There were no clean victories in this war, no paths forward that didn't lead through blood and compromise. All they could do was remember these dead, carry the weight of their responsibility, and destroy the Empire that had created this cruel world. Rashon cast one last glance at the graves, committing the sight to memory. He would not forget these people, would not allow their deaths to become mere ghosts in the larger struggle against the Empire. Each grave represented a life cut short, a future stolen away not by Imperial cruelty this time, but by those who fought against it.
"We should go," Acalia said softly. "The others are waiting."
Rashon nodded, falling into step beside her as they headed back toward Westcreek. His soul felt heavy, burdened by choices that offered no clear right answer, by compromises that chipped away at the person he had once been. Yet somehow, he kept walking, kept moving forward.
Perhaps that was all any of them could do. Take the next step, make the next choice, hope that somewhere along this blood-soaked path they would find redemption, or at least a way to live with what they had become.
Rashon had to hope so.
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