From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman
Chapter 66: Crimson Reprisal

Chapter 66: Crimson Reprisal

The pylon shattered.

A surge of crackling blue ripped across the lower field as Leon drove his blade through its core. The sigils etched on its surface flared once—a violent, dying scream of light—before the entire structure imploded. Lightning spat outwards. One bolt clipped Eliane’s pauldron, spinning her, but she caught herself and staggered upright.

Leon didn’t look back. He was already charging.

Around them, Hollow Guard clashed with the pylon escort—elite spellbreakers clad in mirrorsteel and spell-warded cloaks. Blades met glaives. Sparks danced. A roar echoed from the breach as more enemy troops flooded through the thinning line.

"Hold the flank!" Eliane bellowed, sweeping low with her shortblade, severing tendon and leg. "Leon, ahead!"

He saw it.

A commander—the one directing the arc-lines—stood atop the ruined sled bed. Broad-shouldered, fur-collared, helm marked with Council rune.

Leon moved faster.

He ducked under a hammer swing, sidestepped a lightning bolt, then surged forward. Snow and blood blurred beneath his boots. He threw his shoulder through a spearbearer, vaulted the dead ox yoke, and landed clean on the wrecked platform.

The commander turned just as Leon struck.

Metal shrieked.

The second blade tore through enchantments, armour, and flesh like paper. The blow cleaved from shoulder to chest. The commander didn’t even scream. Just collapsed.

Leon yanked the blade free, spun, and cut again—a wide arc that swept two attackers off their feet.

Then the ground shook.

Not from siege.

From inside the fortress.

Kellen’s voice cracked through the command stones. "Breach in the north wing! They’ve tunneled!"

Leon’s eyes snapped to Eliane. She was already signalling retreat.

They fell back fast. Past burning siege wood. Past scattered shields. Back to the sally gate.

Inside, chaos.

Council assassins had wormed up through a collapsed drainage tunnel beneath the kitchens. They moved like ghosts—blades curved, poison-tipped. Two guards were down before the alarm fully rang.

Marien met them head-on.

A wall of steel, fury, and cold efficiency. Her axe bit deep. Her shield shattered skulls. She didn’t yield an inch.

Leon arrived as the last assassin tried to slip past. He didn’t allow it. A single thrust, clean through the chest.

Then silence.

Smoke drifted through the upper arches. The fires outside still raged. The courtyard smelled of ash and blood.

"Status," Leon demanded.

"West wall holding," Kellen answered. "East bolstered. Valecrest secured the outer ridge."

"North tunnel?"

"Collapsed again. We sealed it."

Eliane exhaled, voice rough. "The Council doesn’t want surrender. They want spectacle."

Leon looked to the upper sky. Clouds churned red above the smoke.

"Then we give them one."

A new rumble crept across the stones—not distant this time, but close, underfoot. Leon tensed. The fortress trembled, subtle as breath, but unmistakable.

"Eliane," he called sharply.

"Already on it." She vanished into the corridor, boots echoing down the stone.

Leon sprinted toward the nearest stairwell. The third tier storage level. If the tremor came from there, they were trying again—another tunnel, another breach.

But when he reached the threshold, he stopped.

It wasn’t a tunnel.

It was a vault door. One that should never have been unsealed.

The locks had cracked open from inside.

A presence stirred behind the ancient stone slab. He stepped closer. His blade hummed in his grip.

A whisper echoed across the metal.

"Too late."

Leon backed up instinctively. The vault opened not with violence—but with purpose. Silent. Absolute.

A figure stepped through.

Armoured in antique war-plate etched with dying creeds, the man—if he was still man—carried a weapon older than the Accord. His eyes burned pale blue, not with life, but memory. Residual magic radiated from his joints like steam from molten rock.

Leon recognised the crest. The sigil of House Elberyn. A house that had died out a hundred years ago.

"Impossible," he whispered.

The revenant spoke. "The Accord failed. Its oathbreakers must be judged."

Leon raised the second blade.

The revenant raised his.

Steel met steel.

The clash echoed through the fortress like a bell struck by thunder. Sparks blinded. Magic tore the floor beneath them. The revenant moved with purpose, not speed, but every swing shook the air like a warhorn.

Leon ducked a killing arc, swept low, then twisted—driving his blade up beneath the plate seam. It bit. But it didn’t end.

The revenant staggered, then gripped Leon’s wrist with iron fingers.

"You bear their mark," he hissed. "But not their sin."

A pulse flared from the revenant’s palm—discharging raw memory into Leon’s bones.

Images flooded him. The First Accord. The betrayal at Grayhold. The cleansing fire of Hollowmere.

Leon screamed, but didn’t let go.

He fought the pain.

And struck again.

This time, the blade pierced fully—between collar and neck. The revenant stiffened. One flicker of light. Then he crumbled.

Ash and steel.

Leon knelt, gasping, blade trembling in his hand.

Behind him, Eliane returned. Her eyes widened at the ruin.

"You’re bleeding."

He touched his brow. Blood. Nose. Ears.

"Not mine."

He stood slowly. "They’re digging in history now. Pulling ghosts to fight their war."

Eliane looked down at the pile of scorched armour. "Then we stop fighting for now."

Leon shook his head.

"No. We dig deeper than them."

From somewhere above, the bell tower rang—twice, then thrice.

Kellen’s voice snapped through the command stone again. "South gate—enemy fallback. They’re retreating."

But not in defeat.

No victory horn followed. No rally.

Leon frowned. "Why retreat after a breach?"

Marien arrived seconds later. Her axe was red with soot and blood. "Because they got what they came for."

Leon’s gut turned. He bolted for the inner library.

When he reached it, the doors hung open. Scrolls scattered. One cabinet—empty.

The Archive of Signatories. The one that held the original Accord treaties.

Gone.

Leon stared into the void.

This wasn’t just a siege.

It was a reset.

He turned from the ruined chamber, every step slow, deliberate. "Get me the High Scrivener," he said to the nearest cadet. "Now!."

Within minutes, a frail man in ink-stained robes was brought in, eyes wide with terror. "Lord Leon—"

"Did you keep a copy?"

The scrivener hesitated. "Some of it, yes, but not the full—"

"Get what you have. Seal it. Copy nothing. Not until I say so."

He turned to Eliane. "Send falcons to the three remaining keeps. Codename Verity. They’ll know what it means."

She nodded. "And the people?"

Leon’s jaw tightened. "We hold the story, Eliane. If they erase it, they win. Tell the people the truth—but not all of it. Not yet."

Eliane moved off.

Leon remained.

Smoke still drifted from the walls. Blood still soaked the snow. And high above the fortress, the sky darkened—not from dusk, but from what loomed beyond the clouds.

The next storm was already gathering.

And this time, it wasn’t just soldiers coming.

It was judgment.

From the southern parapets, scouts raised their horns again—three notes, descending. Leon’s spine stiffened. That was no enemy retreat.

"Report," he snapped.

A runner came breathless. "New banners on the far ridge—red, with silver sigils. Unknown faction."

Leon’s eyes narrowed. "Another army?"

"No, sir," the runner said, swallowing hard. "It’s not an army. It’s a procession. And they’re carrying coffins. Nine of them."

Eliane returned just in time to hear. "Coffins?"

"Wrapped in shrouds marked with the sigils of the First Accord," the runner confirmed. "And one bore your family crest."

Leon stared across the field, heart like ice in his chest.

The Council wasn’t just rewriting the present. They were delivering a message from the dead.

Judgment wasn’t coming.

It had already begun.