Lexel did not slow.
Before him, the barricades loomed like the jagged teeth of a starving beast. They were not haphazardly tossed together; they were built with grim, calculated intent. Heavy timbers bound by rusted iron, spiked outward and reinforced with enough packed earth and stone that any sane rider would have hauled back on the reins long before the shadow of the gate fell over them.
The guards stationed at the checkpoint noticed his approach early—earlier, perhaps, than their complacent vigilance should have allowed. Their reaction was a chaotic symphony of sudden realization. Hands scrambled against leather and steel, crossbows were hefted to shoulders with frantic jerks, and armored bodies shifted aggressively to intercept the lone rider. It was a textbook response. Given the fortifications and their numbers, it should have been more than enough to end the threat before it truly began.
It wasn't.
Lexel rode through the imposing gatehead as if the towering structure of wood and iron had never possessed the authority to stop him in the first place. The massive warhorse beneath him didn't balk, driven forward by a master who radiated an absolute, unyielding momentum.
One of the perimeter guards turned a fraction of a second too late, his boots slipping on the loose gravel. Another raised his heavy halberd but hesitated, his eyes widening as he failed to commit to the swing, paralyzed by the sheer audacity of the charge. A third man, likely the sergeant of the watch, opened his mouth. Something was forming in his throat—a shouted warning, a desperate command, a plea to halt—but it didn't matter. None of it finished.
With preternatural fortune, the horse passed seamlessly between them, threading a needle through a space that by all laws of military engagement should have been entirely closed off. Crossbow bolts snapped through the air, whistling dangerously close, yet they miraculously found only empty wind, biting into the mud and timber behind him.
Behind Lexel, the world seemed to follow a fraction of a heartbeat too slow, struggling to catch up to the reality he was imposing upon it.
And then, the delayed reaction finally shattered the air.
"Stop him!"
Boots struck the cobblestone street in rapid, staccato succession. The sharp, metallic shriek of steel leaving leather sheaths cut through the brief, stunned disarray. The rogues occupying the settlement didn't hesitate now; they didn't have the luxury to question the impossibility of what they were seeing. Brutal, hard-won training snapped violently into place. Bodies aligned seamlessly, weapons lowered, and lethal angles formed a deadly net around the intruder.
A spear lunged first. It was a clean, direct, and vicious thrust, aimed squarely for Lexel's ribs with a chilling precision that spoke of endless repetition rather than blind panic. Almost simultaneously, another guard moved low, sweeping a heavy blade aimed at the galloping horse's front legs to cripple the mount. In the periphery, the sharp clack-clack of crossbow winches signaled the lifting of fresh, steadier aim.
Lexel didn't stop. He didn't even flinch.
The spearman's thrust was perfect. It absolutely should have connected, burying a foot of steel into flesh.
Instead, Lexel's body shifted. Without breaking his forward gaze, his fist rose from below.
The strike was short. Compact. Devoid of any wasted, theatrical motion.
"Guhaaa!!" the voice of the rogue echoed out to Bel's sky as his entire body flew.
The defensive formation instantly broke.
Not by choice. Not by cowardice.
By sheer absence.
Lexel was already flowing seamlessly through the gaping void that his violence had carved open.
"What in the hells is going on out there?"
The voice carried effortlessly over the shifting chaos of the street. It wasn't loud in the high-pitched, reedy way that panic would demand, but rather controlled, deeply grounded, and heavy enough to cut cleanly through what little remained of the guard's order trying to reassert itself.
At the muddy edges of the main street, the captive locals—who had been violently forced to kneel in the dirt hours earlier—lifted their battered heads despite themselves. They weren't supposed to look up. They knew the punishments for insolence. Still, drawn by the thunder of the impact, they looked.
One bloodied villager met another's terrified gaze. Confusion passed between them, quiet but wholly undeniable. Is it the reinforcement? A Champion is coming?!
Another armored body hit the ground, closer this time, the heavy clatter of steel against stone drawing every eye in the courtyard, whether they wanted to watch or not.
Captain Brunks stepped forward, moving out from the shadows of the self-made throne and into full view.
He was a mountain of a man, his armor heavily scarred from a dozen campaigns. His cold eyes moved quickly, tactically taking in the broken spacing of his men, the groaning, misplaced bodies bleeding on the stones, and the violent disruption where his ironclad structure should have held firm. It didn't take long for the veteran's mind to align the chaos into a grim, understandable reality.
Captain Brunks stepped forward, his massive frame coming into full view beneath the flickering light of the street torches.
His cold, calculating eyes moved quickly, taking in the spacing of his men, the unnatural angles of the misplaced, groaning bodies, and the sheer, gaping disruption where his flawless structure should have held firm. It didn't take a seasoned veteran long for all the chaotic pieces to align into a grim, understandable picture.
At the very center of the devastation stood Lexel.
Already too far in. Already a threat that couldn't be easily contained.
"Stand down!"
Lexel's brows raised, realizing the whipping wind coming at him. The horse neighed as it raised its hind legs high. However, Lexel was too nimble to fall. He leaped over and let the horse run away.
"That was a skill, becareful," said Lulu.
"Got it," Lexel smirked.
Brunks' heavy gaze didn't leave Lexel for a fraction of a second.
He scanned the intruder. No royal sigil. No mercenary banner. No identifying colors or crests to mark allegiance, origin, or rank.
"Who are you?" Brunks' voice dropped an octave, resonating with a dangerous, gravelly edge that was no less forceful for its quietness. "Or are you from one of those desperate, lesser kingdoms… also eyeing a piece of Beth?"
Around Lexel, the deadly circle of men closed fully now, sealing him in. Steel shifted menacingly in leather-gloved hands, heavy boots scraping lightly against the abrasive stone as they found their footing. Some of the rogues sneered, looking at him with open, arrogant disdain. Others watched him with the kind of lazy impatience that only came from men who fully believed the violent outcome of this standoff was already decided.
One of the men on the left muttered something foul. Another laughed under his breath, a cruel, scraping sound.
Lexel didn't look at a single one of them.
"A beautiful woman was asking for my help."
The words were completely, utterly wrong.
They didn't match anything that had just unfolded in the street. They didn't fit the suffocating, life-or-death tension in the air. They didn't align with any sane military or political expectation. For a long, suspended moment, absolutely no one spoke.
Not the commanding Captain Brunks. Not the bloodthirsty rogues.
Even Flinn and Anthierin, positioned far enough up the adjacent rooftops to observe the spectacle without being immediately seen, didn't react. They simply stared, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of the statement.
The silence stretched, pulling tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap.
Then, it broke.
A sharp snort of disbelief, barely contained by the rogue nearest to Lexel. Another followed from the back of the circle, and then the raw laughter spread like wildfire. It was uneven at first, nervous and disbelieving, but quickly gained roaring confidence as the pure, unadulterated absurdity of the answer took firm hold over the heavily armed men.
"Did this fool just—"
Brunks laughed right over them.
Louder. Heavier. Shaking his broad, armored shoulders.
"A beautiful woman?" Brunks repeated, wiping a tear of mirth from his scarred cheek, the words losing whatever infinitesimal weight they might have carried the exact moment he spat them back out. "Hahahahhaa!"
---
Back at the ruined perimeter of the gate, Cresty stepped cautiously through what little remained of the entrance.
The sheer scale of the damage was incredibly clear now. It wasn't chaotic, collateral destruction; it was terrifyingly directed. She brushed her fingers against the torched, splintered walls, her nose wrinkling at the foul, acrid smell of burning wood, ozone, and settling ash.
"…What exactly happened here?" she murmured, her eyes scanning the debris.
Carol didn't answer immediately. His trembling gaze lingered nervously on the deep gouges and scorch marks, tracking the way the explosive force pointed entirely inward toward the settlement, rather than bursting out.
"That wasn't a standard breach," Carol finally whispered, his voice dry.
A long, heavy pause hung between them.
"That was someone going in."
Cresty furrowed her brows, her sharp features hardening as she processed the grim reality of the ruins. "…Who is in charge here? Right now?"
"Now... it's Captain Brunks," Carol replied, his voice laced with an unmistakable, vibrating terror that made his jaw twitch.
The chorus of mocking laughter reached them well before the actual scene did, echoing down the winding stone streets.
Cresty stopped in her tracks, listening intently. Her head tilted slightly, like a hound catching a scent, as she expertly traced the direction and the acoustics of the roaring voices.
"…That him?"
"Yes."
She moved, breaking into a brisk, determined stride.
By the time she finally arrived at the edge of the confrontation, the roaring laughter of the rogues had already peaked, echoing against the stone walls of the trapped village.
"A beautiful woman," Lexel continued, his deep tone entirely unchanged, completely unaffected by the deafening, mocking reaction swirling around him, "by the name, Seravine."
...
..
.
The shift in the atmosphere was immediate.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't theatrically dramatic. But it was absolute. The air seemed to freeze in the men's lungs.
Brunks' booming laughter stopped as if his throat had been slashed.
The surrounding rogues followed suit instantly, some literally cutting themselves off mid-breath as the heavy, historic weight of that specific name settled into the dusty space between them.
"…The Queen…"
Brunks said it slowly, deliberately, as if testing the dangerous shape of the syllables on his tongue.
At the very edges of the street, the battered locals heard the exchange.
"The queen…" an old woman whispered, her voice trembling.
It spread through the kneeling villagers vastly differently than the cruel laughter had spread through the soldiers. It was quieter, far deeper, carrying something incredibly fragile and precious with it.
"The reinforcement came after all…" a man muttered to his neighbor, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his cheeks.
Hope. Unsteady, desperate, but undeniably present.
"Don't."
Brunks' voice cut into the murmurs immediately, striking hard enough to physically break whatever fragile momentum had just begun forming in the hearts of the villagers.
"Don't use that name like it means a damn thing here."
The rogues shifted aggressively with him. Their earlier, mocking confidence snapped violently back into place as their Captain's rejection anchored their wavering resolve.
It was a lie.
That's what it was.
That's what it absolutely had to be.
Lexel watched the furious Captain for a long, quiet moment, and then he simply shrugged.
"He is telling the truth."
Her crisp, authoritative voice cut through the mounting tension cleanly, echoing from the mouth of the alleyway.
"And more and more of her bands of reinforcements are coming, Brunks. They are already at the borders."
Heads whipped around, the tight, deadly circle of rogues loosening just enough for the collective attention to frantically shift toward the new arrival.
Brunks turned his massive head and looked straight at Cresty.
Then, slowly, a cruel smile spread across his scarred face, and he laughed again.
"Hahaha, stop bullshitting me! I know for a goddamn fact that Jaar doesn't have enough resources left to spend on this miserable little settlement!"
His calculating gaze shifted to the side, landing on the trembling figure standing just behind her.
"And you brought Carol with you. How touching. Tell me, Carol, does she speak the truth?"
Cresty shot a hard, warning look at him.
Carol swallowed hard. His clammy hand tightened agonizingly around the heavy pouch of gold he held hidden in his pocket, the motion small, desperate, but entirely deliberate as the weight of his own greed anchored him.
"They…"
He paused, the word dying in his dry throat as he looked away from Cresty's betrayed eyes.
"…She lied."