Episode 2: Blood and Hope

  Episode 005 - Bareground Battle

  ● SYSTEM ALERT ●

  Directive Confirmed

  Authorized by: Council of the Ten | Royal Throne Triumvirate

  Witnesses to Decree: 9 / 10

  JUDGMENT

  Slaughter every infant under one year of age.

  Target: Descendants of Ladrack

  Priority: Absolute

  Duration: Indefinite

  They are after your child. You will not rest until he is found.

  Screens flickered to life in a little shack, glowing brighter than any torch. The walls were crooked and splintered—barely holding together. Cloths covered the cracks, keeping the world from looking inside. The wind pressed faintly. The structure creaked. As the old wood groaned, the delicate cries of a newborn came from within.

  The Matron of the Hearth—Serana—sat with her back against a woven mat, arms curling around the child who hadn’t opened his eyes yet. His skin was pale with a warm undertone, glowing faintly in the firelight. Each breath he took was shallow and new.

  She looked at her screen flaring to life.

  The alert struck her like a blow. A faint gasp escaped her lips. Around her, the attending servants shuddered, their own systems blinking with the same warning. They darted gazes to each other, one tightening their grip on their dress and another frozen. A panicking servant said, “My Lady—”

  “They’re coming…” she whispered, eyes locked on the child. Her thumb traced his cheek over and over. Even with her trembling hand, she refused to stop, as if memorizing his softness before he could be taken from her.

  “I wanted to give you a happy life,” she breathed, her voice quaking. “Even just a day to feel peace. To see your mother’s face one day. To know you were loved. Just one day…”

  The baby quieted, soothed by her voice. As his cries faded, so did the screens, their cold light vanishing after some time.

  She hummed a tender lullaby. Her voice drifted through the small room, its warmth contrasting with the cold air and dread approaching them. The servants heard it too, a steady, soothing tone wrapped in sacredness. She sang only one verse before whispering, “This is from my sweet Lefaulta. She sang this to you while you were in my womb, hoping one day to see you. Did you know that? Did you know you were loved before you were delivered?”

  The child quieted. His first wave of tears faded into a soft, peaceful sleep.

  She rocked gently, her eyes never leaving him. The creeping weight of realization pressed on her… that this warmth might not last the hour. Her fingers tightened around the wrapped child, her heart pounding heavily.

  Behind her, footsteps approached.

  Rodger entered the room, Sanpries following close behind, an old man with a gray, bushy beard. Rodger’s eyes locked onto his wife. Relief softened his shoulders when he saw her alive and safe, the baby asleep and undisturbed.

  “Hundreds witnessed it, that damned screen,” Sanpries said, moving to a corner and sitting cross-legged. “I didn’t see it myself, but your hus’ told me to come immediately.”

  “Did you see it too?” Rodger asked, his face damp with sweat.

  Serana gave a slow nod. So did the servants, one responding, “All of us saw it, sir.”

  Rodger drew a breath and steadied himself. He went and crouched beside her. His hair was messy from all the wind blown against him. His face was dusted with ash outside. He took in her exhausted expression, the labor and fear written all over her eyes. Part of him wanted to urge her to rest, but now wasn’t the time.

  “He’ll be alright,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  She didn’t respond.

  Rodger reached forward, his palm resting over the child’s chest. His fingers brushed Serana’s cold hand. “Do you feel that?” he asked. “His heartbeat. It’s steady. He’s alive.”

  “For how long?”

  Rodger went still from that question. No answer came. His lips pressed tight. The tension hung between them, both unable to wrestle with that and come out with certainty.

  He withdrew his hand and stood. “Sanpries,” he said quietly.

  “Already on it, boss.”

  Half-hidden behind a hanging cloth in a corner, Sanpries sat with his palms open before him. He murmured inaudible words, and a soft spell shimmered in the air around him like traces of dust. Pale spirals of white magic formed at his fingertips, slowly beginning to turn.

  Rodger stepped closer, peering down. “Is it working?”

  Sanpries gave the faintest nod. “If none of you distract me. I’ve prepared the primer for two vessels. One for the baby, the other for the decoy.”

  Rodger’s eyes narrowed. “Focus only on the one for our child, and seal the decoy in a rune. We can’t afford to let them uncover our plan.”

  Sanpries’s breathing grew heavier as he shifted his hands. Syllables floated around him like a little dance of snowflakes. His voice kept steady. Beneath his palms, the wooden floor started to move, and something began to take shape.

  Round by magic, the edge of each conjured plank rose and curved inward, and the gaps in between sealed. Then came the lid. It wasn’t a smooth texture—just shards splitting off and forming a new shape. But Sanpries gazed at the smallest deformities, hoping no spikes would jut out in the wrong place. Every minute, a thread of wood bent into place, weaving seamlessly with the others and rounding each curve. The cradle rocked slightly on the floor, the magic pushing it in slow, breath-like motions.

  “It’s almost there,” Sanpries murmured, sweat forming along his brow. “This is the real one. For the child.”

  “Will it float?”

  “Easily,” Sanpries replied. “The bindings are lined on the inside. It won’t leak.”

  Rodger nodded faintly. “Good. That’s all we need for now.”

  Serana turned her head slightly toward them, though her eyes remained on the child. “No invisibility yet?”

  “Not yet. It’ll be cast at the river. It’ll hold longer that way. If I place it now, it might wear off before we even get there.”

  Serana’s hand tightened protectively around the baby.

  Then, there was a knock at the door. Fists pounded on the surface, hinges rattling in their frames.

  “Sir! Lady Serana!” a breathless voice called from outside. “The battle’s begun!”

  Serana flinched, pulling the child closer to her chest. Rodger got up and went to the threshold. He stopped short, placing a hand flat against the grain.

  “They’ve broken through?” he asked.

  “No,” the servant replied, panting. “Not yet. Minsuer’s watching from the field. He’s holding the line with the others. The people are riled up by the announcement. But it’s begun, sir. Magic’s lighting up the hills…” Her voice darkened. “And nobles have been seen among the soldiers.”

  A second servant’s voice joined in. “He told us to come to tell you: leave. You must leave this land!”

  Rodger’s jaw tensed. Serana stood with the baby in her arms, with distress in her eyes. He glanced toward the cradle on the floor, its lid sealed and the surface still glowing faintly from magic. Then his gaze lifted to the window, searching for the border wall that divided RrodKa from the wilderness.

  There was nothing. No sight of escape. Just the growing dark.

  His hands clenched. They were still too far.

  “Let us take the child!” one of the servants pleaded. “If our Lady is weak, we are here. Give him to us. We’ll run far.”

  “No,” Rodger said sharply. “The decree was clear. It won’t end until the child is found.”

  The truth haunted him with cruel certainty.

  Unless every infant died, even theirs, the decree would never end.

  They were all bound to it (except Sanpries), every bloodline tethered, every order absolute. The decree remained unshaken: the child must die. No matter how far they ran, no matter who carried him, the law would pursue them. And anyone who failed to hunt him would die in his place. Under this situation, no man would just sit around while another is robbing them of their life.

  Rodger knew. Battling the decree itself in a game of cat and mouse, they couldn’t save their child. But with the odds stacked against them, he had to take this risk. It was the one that made his chest pound, but his mind burned with hope:

  “If we make a fake child detailed enough to be convincing, our pursuers will believe he’s dead and, if possible, deceive the system. We also have to make them believe in our foolishness… otherwise, our plans will fail.”

  Rodger’s body reeled with the next thoughts, overwhelmed with what needed to come next in the plan. A looming silence settled around him. No one seemed to understand what he meant—besides Serana. Regardless, he had no time to think. He had to act.

  “Sanpries?” he called, turning.

  In the corner, Sanpries still sat, his face damp with sweat. His hands hovered just above a new patch of ground. A second outline was forming beneath his fingers. The second basket.

  “The second vessel’s ready,” he said. “But I need more time. Making it believable… it takes time. The more I have, the better the likeness.”

  Serana stepped forward, her voice trembling with weight. “Sanpries—”

  “I know. But if you want it to fool them, it must be precise. Let me finish. Just a few more minutes.”

  Rodger’s fingers curled tightly at his side. He glanced from Serana to the door, where the servants outside had gone silent, their breath held.

  “But we do not have enough time,” Serana said, her voice rising. She stepped toward him. “Every second—”

  “Hon’,” Rodger interrupted, gently placing a hand on her arm to calm her. “Every second is earned. And Minsuer is earning them. People who are indebted to you are earning them. We can’t waste them panicking. Trust in our people. Everything will be alright.”

  She looked at him, torn. Her shoulders fell slightly. With a lowered head, she stepped back.

  Sanpries continued the spellcast. The threads of magic curled tighter now, more focused. However, this kind of focus was not for a basket. This was smaller, more detailed. It was intense, the making of a child, where each thread formed the limbs steadily.

  Rodger crouched again by the door. “Stay close,” he said through the wood. “When it’s done, we move.”

  The servant’s voice came soft but firm, “We’ll hold the path.” And they retreated.

  Outside, the wind howled across fractured rooftops. Lightning leapt as it followed the servants. Across the Bareground field, the earth turned to fire and mud. Metal clashed with magic. Screams mixed with silence. Soldiers crested the hill in droves, cloaks whipping in the gusts. Their blades shimmered with enchantments, some glowing faintly, others trailing smoke. A few raised their arms, and magic ignited from their palms in vibrant colors.

  They saw the defenders below, the common folk stretching across the field in an unbroken line. Their stance held firm with no ounce of fear. That quiet defiance made some soldiers tighten their grips.

  “Oh man, they’re not backing down,” a young recruit muttered. “Are you sure we are doing this?”

  “Eyes forward,” said a bearded veteran beside him. “Systems will alert you when you’re near a newborn. Stay sharp. When your system marks one, kill them.”

  “Still, look at the line of people. Must be the Matron,” a mage added. “No way they stand like this without her.”

  The name rippled through the ranks—Matron of the Hearth. Some soldiers hesitated to stay at the front. A few moved toward the rear. Their uncertainty stiffened the defenders’ resolve. On their side, the fleet of slaves was not backing down.

  “Bet those bastards are saying horse about us,” said a tall man, raising a rusted sword. “The Matron healed my legs. Without her, I’d still be in bed.”

  “Y’not the only one, bud,” another added. “I can finally stand here fighting for my child, with you lads.”

  “And for the one to come,” said a broad-shouldered man. “He will bring us liberation. In the meantime, let us get these fools.”

  And a torch was lifted high. A voice roared out, “Our systems have spoken! Raise your spirits, for the lord who is to come!”

  A cry erupted from the crowd. Scythes and shovels rose in the air at the sound of courage. Hundreds from the fields, the alleys, the outskirts—every corner—raised their weapons. Their voices howled across the Bareground. Some soldiers stepped back, seeing the unshaken wall of slaves ready to strike.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  One slave took a step forward.

  One soldier stepped back.

  Two more marched.

  A soldier hesitated.

  Ten began to run.

  Soldiers raised blades and magic.

  A hundred roared and charged.

  The soldiers broke from their line to meet them. Magic flared. Steel clashed.

  The slaves ran with all their might, voices rising in a thousand cries. The frontline met the enemy head-on, their rusted tools swinging. From the rear, others cast magic. The raw, imperfect, but real magic.

  Bare feet slammed into mud. Rusted iron struck polished steel. One man hurled a shovel like a spear, driving it straight into a soldier’s gut, only for it to stop cold on impact. The armor, reinforced by high physical defense stats, absorbed the blow. The strike left nothing more than a shallow cut.

  The man froze. His eyes widened as the soldier made a crooked smile and raised his sword.

  He tried to move, but it was too late.

  The blade cut clean through flesh, plunging through the neck and stopping just above the heart. With a swift yank, the soldier pulled the weapon free. The body collapsed. The sword rose again, already seeking its next victim.

  He got his eyes on a young man this time. He wasn’t too old, perhaps a teenager.

  The mud was up to the young man’s ankles, and still, he charged with a hammer.

  Dion wasn’t a fighter, at least not before this. He was supposed to swing hammers to nail roof beams together. He wondered why he was in this situation. When the fire rained down and nobles arrived with glowing swords, his heart swelled with fear. He could see death running straight at him. But that was the least of his worries. More than anything, he wished he were back on a rooftop somewhere, patching holes and earning some money for his dinner.

  Yet here he was, watching his friends defend their children. None of them questioned death, only the hope that their child might see another day. They ran beside him, tools gripped tightly, and roaring with something stronger than fear. Their courage gave Dion breath. So he lifted his voice and let out a scream that shook his chest. Just like that, he joined with the rest of his friends.

  The soldier pointed his gaze at Dion. Sword in hand, he raised it in the air.

  Dion’s breath came hard as he ducked beneath the swing.

  DION

  –31 HP

  HP: 255 / 286

  The enchanted blade only grazed his shoulder, but it was enough to shake his system. Still, he kept moving. He drove the hammer’s head into the soldier’s ribs with all his strength. The steel bent slightly from the impact.

  “You like that?!” he barked.

  SOLDIER

  –10 HP

  HP: 362 / 372

  But the soldier barely reacted. The armor and system resistance made the blow feel like a tap.

  “Shi–”

  The soldier smashed his fist into Dion’s face, throwing him far and stripping another 52 off his health. Dion hit the mud with a grunt. Before he could get up, the soldier was standing before him with a sword raised. And the weapon came down.

  Just then, a burst of flame struck the soldier from behind.

  SOLDIER

  –22 HP

  HP: 340 / 372

  The soldier grunted, head jerking forward. The sword faltered. Dion saw an opening.

  He threw himself upward. And striking, his hammer collided squarely with the man’s jaw.

  SOLDIER

  –31 HP

  HP: 309 / 372

  The impact sent the soldier stumbling, but the defense softened the blow. Dion wiped the blood from his nose, breathing hard. “Tough guy.”

  Another rebel slammed into the soldier with a dull blade, wedging it between the armor armor. It didn’t pierce deep, but it drained the bar further.

  SOLDIER

  –40 HP

  HP: 269 / 372

  The woman hurled another fireball, this one bursting like an explosive behind the man’s back.

  SOLDIER

  –38 HP

  HP: 231 / 372

  Dion kicked him hard in the chest, sending him tumbling. The combined weight of his armor and the relentless attacks made him collapse.

  Dion turned to the woman who’d saved him. She didn’t say anything and just nodded once before moving on.

  He looked down at the fallen soldier’s weapon. It was heavy and sleek. Its shape wasn’t made for his calloused grip. Still, he muttered under his breath, “Fire with fire, I suppose. Come on!”

  He lifted the sword with effort, adjusting for its weight, and raised it high. Then he brought it down hard, straight at the man’s exposed neck.

  SOLDIER

  –231 HP

  HP: 0 / 372

  The blade sheared through. The limbs fell limp. The head rolled only a few inches before stopping. One soldier had fallen.

  Dion lifted his head, sword still in hand. “This works.”

  And the battle continued.

  Some threw stones. Others charged headlong into the soldiers’ formation. But with swords held forward like a wall, the slaves ran straight into their ends. Their chests split open the moment they made contact, their bodies collapsing against steel and enchantment.

  Most charged without a plan. But a few coordinated. Together, they brought down an armored soldier. Even if they were clumsy, they easily outnumbered them. The fallen were scavenged. Those strong enough took up enchanted blades, their bodies straining under weapons too advanced for their builds. Still, they swung. Dion and the others led the push, their roars joining a rising tide that began to force the line of soldiers back.

  The soldiers looked to each other, eyes darting as if asking silent questions. Their lips parted with unspoken panic, their stances faltering. The slaves pressed harder, more and more tearing gear from the fallen and arming themselves in a makeshift rebellion.

  Suddenly… A warhorn split the slope. As the tide turned, it suddenly collapsed.

  From the hillside, a mountain of fire fell like judgment. Dozens of soldiers, those marked by systems and cloaked in blinding enchantments, chanted spells no ordinary man could form. Their chiseled armor blazed with runes. Their systems flared to life, roaring stats and activated adaptation paths.

  Others cast rougher magic that was unstable but fierce. Flames burst outward into the crowd. Bolts of lightning zigzagged across in unpredictable ways. A soldier conjured a whip of wind, slicing through the front lines. Slaves were thrown like leaves. Dion flew back, his body ragdolling through the air.

  DION

  –141 HP

  HP: 62 / 286

  He landed hard in the mud, air crushed from his lungs. For a moment, he and the others lay stunned, their systems flashing warnings, limbs too weak to rise.

  But they weren’t alone. The rebellion had its own casters. Flames fell from the sky like burning hail, crashing into armored soldiers and roasting them alive within their suits. Some spellcasters suppressed the enemy fire with their own, making the sky become a sea of explosions that never met the ground. Others healed the injured.

  The battle shifted again. Then again. One moment belonged to the soldiers. The next to the slaves.

  Two women fought back to back, one with fire curling from her fists, the other with a heavy, makeshift hammer. Their voices cut through the noise as they shouted, struck, and screamed.

  Dirt flew. Flesh collided. Bodies lifted from the ground. Fire rained. Screams layered over one another. Magic danced—some spells clean, others broken. Earth split. The air shimmered. And above them, the storm answered with its own lightning, watching the war rage below.

  And high above, on a hill, Minsuer stood.

  His hands stretched slightly to his sides. Narrowing his focus, he fixed his gaze on the hilltop where soldier mages chanted without pause. Their enchantments had turned the tide once. They would not get another chance if they kept summoning spells without disruption.

  Behind him, the two servants had returned from the shack.

  “We have sent the word,” one said. “They will leave soon.”

  “They should be leaving now,” Minsuer interjected. “But if our Lady’s Love is present, his wisdom and intelligence will be enough. We just need to hold off on any advancement until they leave. Help me with my magic.”

  Catching their breath, they closed their eyes and raised their palms. Just as they were chanting magic, four more servants joined them, who had been healing the wounded in nearby towns. They saw Minsuer stirring magic and rushed to join them, knowing he needed help. Now six stood encircling him, their chants low and ceremonial. Each word they spoke added weight to the spell, anchoring what was to come.

  He raised both hands slowly, fingers spreading open. The six followed his movements instinctively. Their voices deepened. The earth beneath them began to hum.

  With a synchronized push, the gathered magic poured into Minsuer, radiating through his body with overwhelming power.

  White-hot energy threaded through his arms in pulsing waves. Each gesture sent tremors through the battlefield. A flick of his wrist bent the wind. A sweep of his hand made fire curve and soil rise. With this power, he focused on that group of mages. And then, he activated his system:

  Adaptation Path — 1/9 Activated

  Rippling Magic ? OVERLOAD ? Lv. 8 → 12

  The system flared to life around Minsuer, his magic boosting four more levels from the power given to him. A pulse of invisible force rippled from his chest, surging into the earth. The chanting servants moved in perfect sync, hands tracing sigils.

  The earth groaned beneath all the clashing and bloodshed. Jagged veins split through the soil, glowing so faintly no one could notice. Then, violent light beamed outward. The ground trembled. And suddenly, it collapsed.

  The ground beneath the enemy casters crumbled. It opened like a beast’s jaw, opening to a large hole without a bottom. Their footing disappeared. Screams tore through the air as half a dozen mages plummeted. Armor clattered. Weapons vanished into dust. The soldiers vanished into darkness.

  Then the hill rapidly closed in on itself. It shut tight, sealing itself from the world. The ground shook without any trace of the captors left behind.

  The slaves roared from what they witnessed. Their spirits reignited.

  The soldiers reeled, their formation breaking, their rear line gone. The battlefield shifted under the weight of what had just happened. Smoke curled from the shattered lines. The chants of the fallen mages were replaced by an eerie silence.

  Somewhere in the chaos, a soldier shouted for retreat. A few slaves stepped forward, blades raised, breath shaking, and eyes glowing. Victory felt close.

  But just when it felt like victory was near...

  Rumble.

  The wind shifted, pulled by an unseen force. A pressure settled over the battlefield with a dense weight. It felt wrong. Every flame bent in the same direction. And through the curling smoke, Xollor emerged, his crimson-black blade burning with quiet magic.

  The first elite had entered the battle.

  ~ Xollor Tora | One of the Legions | Lv. 175 ~

  Soldiers retreated hastily, almost collapsing behind him. They moved like children hiding behind a parent. The slaves stopped charging. All eyes turned toward the one man who walked without fear. Even without a blow struck, they knew… Xollor was no ordinary soldier.

  His cloak trailed behind him like a second shadow. Rain hissed against his skin and rolled away like oil off stone. Every movement was deliberate.

  The battlefield stilled. The air hung. The slaves exchanged looks of confusion and hesitation.

  Then, one brave soul—or maybe just one too riled to care—rushed him. Staff burning with magic, the slave howled and charged. Xollor’s eyes barely shifted.

  The staff broke in two before it reached his armor, split by air itself. A thread of magic, so thin it was nearly invisible, cleaved it. The man froze mid-run, choking as the same thread coiled around his neck like a vine. A sharp snap followed. Then the body dropped.

  Two more rushed in. One conjured wind. The other fire.

  With a flick of Xollor’s hand, the wind inverted, snapping backward and flinging its caster into the mud. The fire vanished on contact with his cloak, snuffed out like mist over steel. More magical threads were woven around him in a controlled manner.

  The charge faltered. Slaves stumbled. Fear spread through the whole crowd. The steps they had just taken forward were now dragged two steps back.

  But Xollor’s gaze didn’t linger on them. His eyes lifted to the hill, to Minsuer.

  His expression sharpened. A pulse lit in his chest. The decree roared in his system. The hunt had begun.

  And then, behind Xollor, they arrived.

  Six more elites emerged from the smoke, just like him. Their armor shimmered with violent enchantment. They said nothing. But their eyes scanned the field like gods surveying ants.

  And just behind them stood one man. He wore no armor but a fine coat. He looked more like a seasoned wanderer than a soldier. But the elites moved around him like guard dogs around their master. His calm didn’t fit the battlefield, but his name said everything.

  ~ Donnor Thallion | Commander of the Legions | Lv. 199 ~

  “It’s Commander Thallion,” someone whispered, staring at the one they’ve known for a while. His heart pounded, and he looked at the seven beasts. “And… the elites.”

  “What do we do?” another panicked. They knew, in that moment, their children were no longer safe from what was coming.

  The elite force stepped forward. Everyone else stepped back. No one raised their swords. No one dared to cast a spell. They just stood there, frozen. But they knew they had to do something. Anything. But would anything be enough? Their minds reeled, trying to form a plan in silence, desperate to find a way to strike back. To protect their children.

  Xollor’s blade tilted. His gaze locked on the hilltop. Minsuer stood there, steam rising from his shoulders, his body trembling after a powerful release of magic. Their eyes met and held for a long, slow minute.

  Xollor’s system responded.

  Magic threads surged from his hands, his window opening up:

  Adaptation Path — 2/13 Activated

  Telekinetic Magic ? Lv. 42

  Enchanted Aura ? Lv. 19

  Minsuer’s chest tightened. Something about the way the elite’s magical threads disturbed him, like they were too controlled for his liking. This battle was decided before it started. He knew time was the only thing keeping the Lady safe, not him.

  His gaze snapped from Xollor to the shack.

  There was no more time.

  He turned sharply. “Protect the family!” he roared. “Shield them with your bodies if you must! Get our Lady out of here! With the child!”

  The servants saw Xollor’s stare, those burning dots across the battlefield, fixed directly on them. Their skin went pale. They knew what was coming. They were next.

  “M–Minsuer!” one of them cried, panic rising. But he didn’t answer.

  He just pointed to the shack behind them. “Protect the family. Run!”

  They didn’t hesitate. Six servants sprinted from the hilltop. They stormed down the slope in a blur. One tripped and tumbled, sliding through mud and rock, but got back up fast. None of them looked back.

  Minsuer stayed.

  He turned to face Xollor alone. Both of his hands now glowed, swirling with power pulled from the very air. The hill beneath his feet rumbled faintly. Their battle was about to begin.

  Inside, Serana stood over the basket. The child lay nestled, still asleep. The lid rested nearby, not yet sealed. Her breath trembled as she ran her fingers along the edge. Rodger stood by the door, frozen and listening. Every sound outside—every scream, every blast—tightened his chest. His palms were slick with sweat. Everyone inside the shack was trembling.

  Sanpries sat with his eyes closed, hands still outstretched. His breath came deep and heavy, driven by exhaustion, by determination, by desperation.

  “The second basket’s almost ready,” he whispered. “The fake baby is fully done too. Just need the lid…”

  Rodger’s voice came firm, sharp. “We don’t have time for the lid. Just take him!”

  “No!” Sanpries shouted. The word came out like a snap, filled with something that pushed him to continue. He was shaking now, his fingers twitching, sweat pouring from his skin.

  “It’s forming... slowly,” he said, barely audible. “A cover will do more than miracles... Please. Just trust me. I don’t want to make the same mistake… not again. This is important.”

  Rodger looked at him, stunned. “What do you m—”

  The air cracked.

  The shack walls trembled. Rodger snapped his head up. Serana gasped. Servants reeled. Through the slats in the cabin walls, they saw it—

  Minsuer flying.

  His body was hurled far away, his limbs twisting from the blast. He crashed into the hillside as dirt and dust exploded outward. Trees shook. A low, pained grunt escaped him.

  And then, on the hilltop where Minsuer had stood… Xollor appeared.

  His cloak rippled. His blade was drawn. His eyes were cold. He stared straight down at the shack. And with no emotion in his voice, he whispered with the decree’s judgment beside him, “Found you.”

  End of Episode 2