Chapter 4 - The Trial of Iron and Steel
"Drop the trinket, boy," General Varek growled, resting his hand on the pommel of a massive battleaxe. "The High Lord wants you alive, but he didn't specify how many limbs you need to keep to get there."
Leo didn't panic. The panic he had felt in the alleyways when dodging market guards was gone, replaced by a strange, cold clarity. The ring on his finger pulsed with a steady, grounding rhythm, connecting his heartbeat to the ancient foundations of the castle beneath them.
"You killed my father," Leo said, his voice small, yet it carried an unnatural resonance that made the glass mobile above the crib chime in harmony.
Varek paused, narrowing his eyes as he studied the boy’s face in the dim light. A flicker of recognition crossed the general’s scarred visage. "Alistair's whelp. We were told the fire took you all. Pity the men assigned to the nursery were so sloppy."
"You took everything," Leo continued, stepping forward from the crib. "And now, your time is up."
"Fire!" Varek roared.
Six crossbow strings twanged in unison. Six heavy iron bolts hissed through the air, aimed directly at Leo's chest and head.
Leo didn't dodge. He raised his right hand, the signet ring flashing with blinding silver light. The bolts froze mid-air, suspended as if caught in a thick wall of amber. A second later, they dropped harmlessly to the polished floor with a series of dull clanks.
Varek’s eyes widened in disbelief. "What devilry is this?"
"Not devilry," a deep, resonant voice echoed through the stone walls—not coming from Leo, but from the very stones of the castle. "Justice."
Before the guards could react, the floorboards beneath their feet splintered. Roots of pure, petrified light shot up from the foundations, wrapping around the guards' ankles and yanking them to the floor. Their crossbows shattered into splinters.
General Varek snarled, drawing his battleaxe and charging forward with terrifying speed, aiming a lethal overhead swing at Leo’s neck.
Leo stepped to the side with preternatural grace—a movement he had never practiced, yet flowed through his muscles like water. As Varek lunged past him, Leo hooked his foot behind the general's ankle and shoved his back.
Varek crashed heavily against the heavy ebony doors, his helmet flying off his head. Before he could recover, Leo pressed the palm of his hand against the general's chest plate.
A burst of golden energy surged from the signet ring. Varek was thrown backward across the length of the room, smashing through a stained-glass window and tumbling out onto the snowy marble balcony overlooking the inner courtyard.
Leo walked slowly to the shattered window and looked down. Below, guards were running in panic, shouting orders as the alarm bells of the citadel began to toll a frantic, discordant rhythm.
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In the center courtyard, Master Tomas and a growing crowd of commoners had broken through the outer gates, carrying makeshift torches and iron tools. They were no longer running from the guards; they were marching forward, their faces illuminated by the golden aura bleeding from the upper windows of the palace.
The revolution had begun, and Leo was no longer just a boy from the slums. He was the spark that would burn down a tyrant's throne.
