Chapter 57: Ten days of Rebellion
Edward stood, chest heaving, breath coming in ragged bursts that turned to mist in the cold night air.
Around him, three bodies lay strewn across the cobbled alley, their crimson-stained armour torn open at the chest. Pact marks carved into their flesh glistened in the moonlight, symbols that no longer held meaning now that their owners were dead.
Beside him, two shadows shifted—his summons, silent and loyal.
The Shadow Assassin still dripped with fresh blood, blade fading into the dark as if drinking the kill. The Shadow Warrior stood with its broad shoulders hunched, armoured frame blending seamlessly into the gloom. They lingered only for a moment, their hollow visages turned toward him like predators awaiting their master’s next command.
Ten days.
It had been ten long, relentless days since Aeris and Seraphine left for the capital. Nine days since Edward had found the two severed heads laid neatly on his dining table—a clear and merciless message.
And in that time, Ashenhold had fallen deeper into the Crimson Oath’s grasp.
The executions had begun almost immediately.
Council members, officials, and anyone who resisted were dragged into the squares and cut down for all to see. Blood ran in gutters where children once played, and gallows never stood empty.
A new church—if it could even be called that—rose in the center of town. They named it the Sanctuary of True Believers, a twisted hall draped in crimson banners where priests of the Crimson Oath declared their dominion. One by one, townsfolk had been forced to kneel and swear allegiance.
At first, they refused. Families clung to stubborn pride. But after hundreds fell in public squares, their heads mounted for all to see, the spirit of Ashenhold broke. Most bent the knee.
Edward hadn’t.
The townhouse had been his last semblance of safety, but even that had been compromised. He’d barely slipped away before waves of soldiers stormed through it, seeking his blood. They found only his shadows waiting. The slaughter that followed cemented his war—a one man rebellion against the entirety of Crimson Oath.
And so, Edward had become a phantom of this town.
He struck from the dark, his summons ambushing patrols at night, leaving mangled corpses as the only message. The Crimson Oath swelled its numbers with recruits by the day, but Edward’s silent war slowed their growth, thinning their forces before they could fully settle their control.
Tonight’s three kills had brought him something more. As the last soldier fell, Edward felt the surge ripple through him—the telltale rush of advancement. His rank had shifted, climbing to C. The new strength surged through his entire body, intoxicating, sharpening every sense. But he had no time to linger in that rush.
The hounds were coming.
From the far end of the alley, the echo of barking and shouting carried on the wind. Edward melted into the shadows, his summons fading behind him, as he slipped through the labyrinth of Ashenhold’s outer streets.
The outskirts were different now. The Crimson Oath hadn’t yet fully claimed them, preferring to clutch the heart of the city. Out here, in the ragged edges, people still whispered rebellion.
And one inn in particular had become his refuge.
The moment Edward pushed through the weathered door, warmth washed over him. The heavy scent of roasted meat and spiced ale clung to the air, along with the unmistakable sound of laughter—rare, defiant laughter.
"Ayy, there he is!" the innkeeper bellowed, his voice carrying across the crowded room. "Did you get any of ’em tonight, boy?"
Edward offered the faintest smile, tilting his head in acknowledgement.
"I got three," he replied.
A cheer went up around the room. Tankards were raised, and a middle-aged man near the fire called out, "Ayy! I got one of the bastards myself!" His hand bore a fresh bandage, but his grin was wolfish. "Ain’t letting them take the town without a fight!"
"Cheers to that!" another voice rang, and cups clashed together as everyone inside cheered for the defiance.
Edward let it wash over him.
He hadn’t meant to become a symbol here. The first time he’d stumbled into this inn, he was half-broken and bleeding. He had only hoped for a place to hide.
Instead, he found people who hadn’t bent the knee. Men and women who refused to swear allegiance, those who lit fires in the night and cut down lone patrols when they could.
Against the might of the Crimson Oath, their defiance was little more than a spark, but to Edward, it was proof the town’s soul hadn’t been completely crushed. A reason that pushed him forward despite the daily struggle.
Now, every night, they waited for him. Waited for his return, for his stories, for his victories against the Crimson Oath.
He threaded through the crowd and settled at the bar. The innkeeper, Gerrad, slid a steaming cup toward him without a word.
Edward caught it, the heat seeping into his fingers as he allowed himself a slow sip.
"How’ve you been, Gerrad?" Edward asked, his voice low.
"Same old, kid. Same old." The man shrugged, leaning in closer, his eyes hard. "But tell me, kid, are those reinforcements really coming?" he asked with a hint of doubt in his voice.
The words cut sharper than the drink. Edward met his gaze, unflinching. He wanted to give certainty, to promise the impossible. But ten days had passed, and every night without the thunder of marching boots gnawed at him.
"They’re coming," Edward said at last, steady, though doubt scratched at the back of his skull.
Gerrad searched his face, then nodded slowly, as if forcing himself to believe.
"Very soon, I reckon," Edward added.
Then he raised the cup again, letting the warmth chase away the chill in his chest. For a moment, he allowed himself to sit there, surrounded by defiance, by the fragile hope that clung to the people who refused to surrender.
But even as he drank, a single question echoed in his mind.
"How long, Aeris? How much longer will you keep me waiting?"