The grey dawn broke over the English countryside, casting a pallid light upon the dew-laden fields. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that precedes a tempest. Sabastin stood atop a gentle rise, his silhouette stark against the morning mist. His wounds, though bandaged, throbbed with each heartbeat, a grim reminder of the recent clash.
Beside him, Petrova tightened the straps on her leather gauntlets, her eyes scanning the horizon. "They'll come, won't they?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sabastin nodded. "They will. Honour binds them as much as blood."
As if summoned by his words, the distant sound of hooves echoed through the valley. From the north, a column of riders emerged, their banners fluttering in the breeze. At their head rode Sir Alaric of Kent, his armour gleaming despite the overcast sky.
"Sabastin!" Alaric called out, dismounting with practiced ease. "Heard you stirred the hornet's nest."
Sabastin offered a wry smile. "Couldn't resist. Aleister needed reminding that tyranny has its price."
Alaric clapped a gauntleted hand on Sabastin's shoulder. "Well, you've got half the shires talking. Thought we'd lend a hand."
Throughout the day, more allies arrived: archers from Sherwood, pikemen from Yorkshire, and even a contingent of Highlanders, their tartans vivid against the drab landscape. By evening, a formidable force had assembled, their campfires dotting the hillside like stars fallen to earth.
Blackmoor Keep loomed ahead, its stone walls dark against the twilight. Within, Aleister prepared for the inevitable assault. His wounds, though healing, had left him more irritable than ever.
"Double the guards on the eastern wall," he barked, pacing the battlements. "And have the ballistae ready. They'll come at dawn."
His lieutenant, a wiry man named Cormac, nodded. "Aye, milord. But the men are weary. Morale is low."
Aleister sneered. "Then remind them what's at stake. Failure is not an option."
As night fell, the allied forces encircled the keep. Sabastin stood before his assembled commanders, a map spread out on a makeshift table.
"We strike at first light," he announced. "Archers will provide cover while the sappers breach the main gate. Once inside, we split into three groups: one heads for the armoury, another secures the towers, and the third—led by me—will confront Aleister."
Petrova stepped forward. "And if he escapes again?"
Sabastin's gaze hardened. "He won't."
The first rays of dawn pierced the horizon as the assault began. Arrows rained down upon the battlements, forcing Aleister's men to take cover. Sappers advanced under the protective canopy of shields, their tools chipping away at the gate.
With a resounding crash, the gate gave way, and the allied forces surged forward. The courtyard became a maelstrom of clashing steel and cries of battle. Sabastin led the charge, his sword a blur as he cut down foes left and right.
Within the keep, Aleister donned his armour, the dark metal plates fitting together with ominous finality. He descended the spiral staircase, meeting Sabastin in the grand hall.
"So, the prodigal son returns," Aleister sneered.
Sabastin raised his sword. "This ends today."
Their blades met with a clang that echoed through the chamber. The duel was fierce, each combatant matching the other's skill and ferocity. Blood splattered the stone floor as wounds were exchanged.
Finally, Sabastin found an opening, driving his sword through Aleister's side. The tyrant staggered, disbelief etched on his face.
"It's over," Sabastin declared.
Aleister chuckled, blood bubbling from his lips. "Perhaps... but the seeds have been sown."
With that, he collapsed, lifeless.
The battle won, the allied forces tended to their wounded and honoured their dead. Blackmoor Keep, once a symbol of oppression, now stood as a testament to unity and resilience.
Sabastin stood atop the battlements, gazing out over the countryside. Petrova joined him, her arm in a sling.
"It's done," she said.
Sabastin nodded. "For now. But peace is a garden that requires constant tending."
She smiled. "Then let's ensure it flourishes."
As the sun rose higher, casting its golden light upon the land, hope blossomed anew.
Got it. Here's the continuation of the story, now focusing on Aleister—his escape, his injuries, and what he does next to prepare for revenge.
The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder as Aleister stumbled away from the battlefield, blood seeping from a deep gash in his side. His once-pristine coat was tattered, darkened by soot and the crimson stains of war. His boots slipped on the muddy ground, the dampness of the English woods soaking into his bones. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, pain rippling through him with each step.
The bodies of his men lay strewn behind him—some riddled with bullets, others broken by brutal blows. Sabastin had fought like a devil, not a man. That bastard was no mere hunter—he was a beast let loose.
Aleister gritted his teeth and pressed a blood-soaked cloth to his wound. "Damn you, Sabastin," he muttered under his breath. "You'll pay for this."
He limped deeper into the woods, following a barely marked trail he'd scouted weeks ago. Sabastin might have known the forest, but Aleister had done his homework too. He'd never intended to die out there. His pride may have bled out with his men, but his mind was still sharp—and vengeful.
After half an hour of painful trudging, Aleister reached an old hunter's outpost tucked between the dense trees. A half-rotted wooden cabin, abandoned by its original owner long ago. He slammed the door shut behind him, bolted it, then collapsed onto a crooked table. His vision blurred, but his rage kept him awake.
He pulled out a flask of whiskey from his coat and poured it over his wound, letting out a guttural yell as the alcohol seared through torn flesh. Blood trickled down his ribs, but he gritted through it, breathing heavily.
Once the worst of the pain dulled, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a bundle of wax-sealed letters and maps. He spread them across the table, his fingers trembling. "If I can't beat him alone," he whispered, "I'll bring fire down on his whole world."
Days Later
The wound began to heal, leaving a puckered scar that burned with every movement. Aleister didn't care. Pain was a teacher—and he had learned his lesson well. He spent the next days in silence, surviving on stale biscuits and rainwater while he planned. Names. Allies. Mercenaries. Traitors.
He would raise hell itself if that was what it took.
He sent out messengers—men loyal not to him, but to coin. From the coast to the city slums, from the farmlands to the prisons. He didn't want soldiers. He wanted butchers. Thugs with nothing to lose.
One of them arrived just as night fell—Rufus "the Butcher" Crane, a former enforcer from the docklands of Liverpool. A giant of a man with a face scarred by years of street brawls and a voice that rumbled like thunder.
"You the one that wants Sabastin dead?" Rufus asked, grinning like a wolf. "Heard he made you cry in the woods."
Aleister didn't flinch. He simply handed the man a sack of gold coins and a vial of dark red powder. "This will burn the lungs out of a man if you light it in a closed space," he said. "Get close to his cottage. Make him bleed."
By the end of the week, Aleister had gathered eight of the nastiest killers money could buy. Trained in ambush, sabotage, and murder. All of them eager for blood.
As they sharpened blades and loaded rifles, Aleister stood before them, now dressed in black military garb, his face hard with vengeance.
"This time," he said coldly, "we don't go for his head first. We burn everything. We make his family watch."
The men cheered.
The hunt had begun again—but now the monster had an army.