The imperial banners loomed on the horizon, their gold and black sigils catching the dying light of the manor's fires. Elias Vaeron stood in the crumbling keep of House Vaeron, his small hands gripping the reloaded musket, its barrel heavy with a single lead ball. The interface in his vision screamed with data: Imperial Vanguard: 50 infantry, 20 cavalry. Intent: Unknown. Threat Level: Extreme. The courtyard outside was a slaughterhouse, littered with the bodies of House Drayce's soldiers and the remnants of the crimson-cloaked commander's forces. Lady Seline Kaelar's riders, now down to four, held a shaky line beside the surviving militia, their faces grim but resolute. The commander, bound and bloodied, knelt under Seline's spear, his smirk a blade of its own.
Elias's steel-gray eyes, flecked with amber, scanned the approaching vanguard. Their disciplined march—armor gleaming, banners snapping—marked them as no mere raiders. The empire had come, and the commander's words echoed in Elias's mind: You've started a fire you can't put out. This wasn't just about House Vaeron's land. It was something bigger, something that made a backwater barony worth an imperial blade.
"Lady Seline," Elias said, his voice carrying the clipped authority of his past life, "keep the commander alive. We need him talking."
Seline's silver-armored form turned, her spear still pressed to the commander's chest. "You think you can order me, boy?" Her tone was sharp, but her eyes held a flicker of respect. "These imperials—they're not here for you. They're here for him." She nodded at the commander, whose smirk faltered.
Elias's mind raced, piecing together the puzzle. The commander served someone high—noble, imperial, maybe even the emperor himself. House Drayce's attack was a diversion, a way to soften Vaeron before the real strike. But why? What did this crumbling manor hide?
The interface pinged: Diplomacy (Level 1): Assess enemy intent through negotiation. Elias stepped forward, ignoring the ache in his frail body. His lungs burned, his shoulder throbbed from the musket's recoil, but he'd endured worse—nights without sleep, battles without hope. "Toren," he called to the militia captain, who stood bloodied but unbowed, "reload the musket. Mira, watch the rear hall. Garrick—" He turned to the questionable retainer, whose sword remained drawn, his eyes unreadable. "You're with me."
Garrick's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Still don't trust me, boy?"
"I trust you to want to survive," Elias said, his tone cold. "Move."
They slipped through the keep's side passage, avoiding the shattered main entrance where Drayce's remnants still clashed with Seline's riders. The interface's map guided them to a collapsed balcony overlooking the western approach, where the imperial vanguard was forming ranks. Their infantry carried long pikes, their cavalry armed with lances and crossbows. A man in ornate gold-trimmed armor rode at their head, his face hidden by a visored helm. The interface tagged him: Lord-Captain Valthar, Imperial Vanguard. Status: Hostile (Probable).
Elias crouched behind a broken pillar, Garrick at his side. The musket rested in his hands, its single shot a gamble. One well-placed bullet could disrupt their command, but it'd reveal his weapon's power to the empire. A risk he couldn't afford—not yet.
"Garrick," Elias whispered, "can you get close enough to hear them?"
Garrick's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, slipping into the shadows with a thief's grace. Elias watched, his instincts screaming. The interface's Loyalty: Questionable tag hadn't changed. If Garrick betrayed him now, the keep would fall.
The vanguard halted just beyond the manor's walls, their pikes glinting in the firelight. Lord-Captain Valthar raised a hand, his voice booming through his helm. "House Vaeron! Surrender the traitor, and you may yet live!"
Elias's heart sank. Traitor? The commander? Or someone else? He glanced at the keep, where Seline guarded the crimson-cloaked man. The interface flashed: Tactics (Level 1): Suggest parley to delay enemy advance. A delay could buy time to fortify, to reload, to plan. But it meant exposing himself.
He stood, stepping onto the balcony's edge, the musket hidden behind his back. "Lord-Captain Valthar!" he shouted, his voice ringing with a commander's authority, unnatural in a six-year-old's throat. "I'm Elias Vaeron, heir of this house. Name your terms!"
The vanguard stirred, murmurs rippling through their ranks. Valthar's helm tilted, as if studying a curiosity. "A child speaks for Vaeron?" His voice was laced with amusement, but there was steel beneath it. "Hand over the crimson traitor, and we spare your people. Defy us, and your name dies tonight."
Elias's mind churned. The commander was the key—his knowledge, his master. But surrendering him meant losing leverage. And Valthar's tone suggested no mercy, terms or not. The interface pinged: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Explosive Charge. A small bomb, more precise than his earlier grenades: gunpowder, iron casing, fuse. He could rig it with the keep's remaining alchemical supplies, but it'd take time.
Garrick reappeared, his face grim. "They're not here for you," he whispered. "They want the commander. Something about a stolen relic. Drayce was hired to flush him out."
Elias's eyes widened. A relic? That explained the empire's interest. House Vaeron was a pawn in a larger game, its land a convenient excuse. "What relic?" he hissed.
Garrick shrugged, his eyes darting away. "Didn't hear more. But they're ready to storm the keep if you don't comply."
Elias's jaw tightened. He needed to stall. "Valthar!" he shouted. "The commander's ours. Name the relic, and we'll talk."
Valthar laughed, a cold, metallic sound. "You're in no position to bargain, boy. Last chance—surrender him, or we burn your house to ash."
The interface flashed: Diplomacy (Level 1): Escalate to gain time. Elias raised his voice, defiant. "You want him? Come take him. But you'll bleed for every step."
Valthar's helm tilted, and he raised a gauntleted hand. The vanguard's pikes lowered, their cavalry spurring forward. Elias dove behind the pillar, his heart pounding. He'd bought seconds, maybe minutes. He needed to move.
"Back to the keep," he told Garrick, sprinting through the passage. The retainer followed, his sword still drawn, his loyalty a gnawing doubt. They reached the keep's rear hall, where Seline's riders and the militia held a crumbling barricade. Toren handed Elias the reloaded musket, his hands steady despite the blood on his face.
"They're coming," Seline said, her spear bloodied but unbowed. "What's your play, boy?"
Elias scanned the hall, the interface highlighting: Resources: 1 vial alchemical powder, 3 iron scraps, 1 oil lamp. Enough for the explosive charge. "We rig a trap," he said. "Blow the entrance when they breach. Then we hit their commander."
Seline's eyes narrowed. "You're betting everything on that… thing?" She nodded at the musket.
"It's worked so far," Elias said, his smirk grim. He turned to Mira, who stood guard at the hall's rear. "Get the lamp and scraps. We're making a bomb."
Mira nodded, darting to the supplies. Elias worked fast, packing the powder into an iron casing—a broken helmet from the armory. He tied a strip of cloth as a fuse, his hands moving with the precision of his old life. The interface guided him: Construction Time: 90 seconds.
The hall shook, the vanguard's battering ram splintering the door. Seline's riders braced, their blades ready. Elias lit the fuse, its hiss loud in the confined space. "When I say, fall back," he told Seline. "Let them in, then we blow it."
She nodded, her trust in him growing. The door cracked, imperial pikes thrusting through. Elias waited, counting heartbeats. The vanguard poured in, their armor clanking. "Now!" he shouted.
The defenders fell back, and Elias tossed the charge. It landed at the entrance, the fuse sparking. The explosion roared, collapsing the doorway in a cloud of stone and dust. Screams followed, the vanguard's front ranks buried. The interface updated: Enemy Losses: 12 infantry. Morale: Shaken.
But the vanguard was too large, too disciplined. More poured through, their pikes relentless. Elias raised the musket, aiming for Valthar's golden helm, visible through the smoke. The recoil slammed into his shoulder, the pain blinding, but the shot flew true, grazing Valthar's armor. The lord-captain staggered, his horse rearing.
The interface flashed: Enemy Command Disrupted. But Valthar's voice roared, rallying his men. "Take the boy! Alive!"
Elias's heart sank. Alive? Why? The relic, the commander, Vaeron's secrets—something made him a target. He handed the musket to Toren. "Reload. Aim for officers."
The militia fought desperately, their blades clashing with imperial pikes. Seline's spear danced, felling two soldiers, but her riders were down to three. Mira returned, her face pale, clutching a dagger. "They're everywhere," she whispered.
Elias nodded, his mind racing. The keep couldn't hold. They needed to escape, regroup, but the commander was still their leverage. He turned to Seline. "We take him and run. Servant's tunnel—where is it?"
She pointed to a shadowed corner, a trapdoor hidden under rubble. "There. But it's a maze. You sure?"
"No choice," Elias said. He grabbed the commander, shoving him toward the trapdoor. Seline's men followed, dragging the bound assassin. Garrick hesitated, his eyes flicking to the exit.
"Move," Elias snapped, his voice a whip. Garrick obeyed, but the interface's warning lingered: Betrayal Risk: High.
They descended into the tunnel, the air damp and heavy. The interface's map guided them, but the walls shook, dust falling as the keep buckled above. The commander laughed, his voice echoing. "You're running to your grave, Vaeron."
Elias ignored him, his mind focused. The tunnel led to the manor's edge, but the vanguard would follow. He needed a final stand, a way to break them. The interface flashed: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Musket Volley Tactic. A simple formation: multiple muskets, staggered fire. But he had one musket, one shot.
Unless he armed his people.
They emerged into a clearing beyond the manor, the fires distant but growing. The interface tagged: Resources: 2 iron ingots, 1 anvil, nearby forge. A village forge, just outside the walls. If he could reach it, he could craft more muskets—crude, but enough for a volley.
But hoofbeats thundered behind them. Valthar's cavalry was closing, their lances gleaming. Elias turned, the musket raised, his small body a defiant silhouette against the flames. The interface pulsed: Leadership (Level 1): Final stand increases ally resolve by 20%.
"Vaeron!" he shouted, his voice raw. "To me! We end this now!"
The militia rallied, their blades ready. Seline's riders formed a line, their spears raised. Even Garrick stood firm, his sword glinting. But the commander's laugh grew louder, and a new sound joined it—a low, mechanical hum from the shadows.
The interface screamed: Unknown Device Detected. Threat Level: Catastrophic.
A massive shape loomed through the smoke—a war machine, its iron frame glinting, its purpose unknown.