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Chapter 85 - Rebellion

A pale, trembling light crept over the horizon as Hans von Eisenhart stood at the head of the rebel column, his silhouette framed against the battered stone walls of Teravell Keep. The obsidian katana at his hip—the elegant curve of its blade sheathed in midnight-black lacquer—caught the first glimmers of dawn. Around him, six dozen ragged fighters shifted uneasily, forging crude pikes and raising ragged banners embellished with hastily drawn sigils of freedom. Hans inhaled deeply, tasting the chill morning air. He smelled damp moss, sweat-tinged leather, and the iron tang of brewing warfare.

Shuna moved at his side, her dark cloak billowing like a specter's wing. Her eyes, the color of forest shadows, roved over the rebels' huddled mass. Her slender fingers traced invisible runes upon her gloves—a silent invocation of Mental Dominion, ready to shape minds even as steel clashed at their backs. Together, they embodied calm authority amid the storm of anticipation.

Merian, the rebels' broad‐shouldered captain, raised his rusty sword with trembling fervor. "Brothers and sisters! Today, we march to liberate our land, reclaim our dignity, and restore Lord Caelan to his rightful place!" His voice cracked with passion, and the crowd roared in response. Hans allowed a faint smile. He knew this fervor, this raw hope, was precisely the fuel that would drive the uprising—and blind them to the true nature of their savior.

Shuna whispered beside him, voice soft and cold. "They believe in Caelan's return. They do not suspect his life is already lost to us."

Hans dipped his head, watching the rebels form ranks. "Nor his loyalty," he added. "Our Caelan will serve a greater will." The obsidian hilt of his katana hummed against his armor as he shifted, memories of his samurai training stirring at the back of his mind—disciplined stances, silent footwork, the lethal elegance of a single swing. Today, that blade would be their guide.

With a wordless signal, Hans sprinted forward, blade still sheathed, blending into the vanguard of vengeful hearts. The rebels followed, a tide of ragged metal surging against the towering gate. Shouts of defiance crashed against stone. Torches, hastily thrust into iron sconces, ignited the battlements in flickering gold.

As the first wave of rebels battered the gate's iron reinforcements, Hans slipped unseen around the flank. He moved like liquid shadow, each step measured and silent upon the dusty road. A lone guard, helmet tipped low, seized a nearby pike to confront him—but Hans intercepted with a swift draw of his katana. The obsidian blade arced in a whisper of steel, striking the pike's shaft with deliberate force. The wood splintered; the guard staggered, eyes widening as Hans used the ruined weapon to cradle his arm, sending metal armor reverberating.

Without a word, Hans kicked the man aside and slipped past the trembling gate. Within, a small squad of sentries rushed to seal the breach. Crimson dust rose as steel met steel, but Hans remained unperturbed. He pressed the flat of his katana against a helmeted brow, a gentle yet devastating tap that shut down consciousness in a heartbeat. Two more guards lunged simultaneously; Hans pivoted, crossing his leg in a controlled sweep that sent one sprawling, then slashed through the second's leather straps, dropping him with grim precision.

Each movement was a study in samurai grace—crane‐like steps, deliberate extensions of the body, a disciplined flow of offense and defense. And always, the blade remained keen, its obsidian edge slicing through armor joints, sinew, and spirit without hesitation.

Behind him, the rebels stormed the courtyard in a chorus of victory. Torches clashed against shields, and Hans allowed their fervor to amplify the chaos. He exited the keep's shattered gate, beckoning Shuna to follow.

Deep beneath the shattered keep lay the dungeon—corridors of damp stone, iron rings embedded in the walls, and the distant drip of water echoing like forgotten prayers. Hans and Shuna slipped through the shadows, their approach masked by the clangor above.

At the end of a narrow passage, Shuna knelt before a heavy iron door. Her staff tapped twice against corroded runes carved into the lock. A faint glow pulsed as the ancient mechanism yielded with a victorious click. Hans drew his katana, stepping forward in case of guard reinforcements.

Within the cell sat a solitary figure bound to the wall by thick chains. Lord Caelan Teravell's once-pristine doublet was torn; his expression was hollow with fatigue and betrayal. At the whisper of the opening door, his head lifted, golden hair falling over haunted eyes.

"My lord," Shuna said softly, removing the final bolt. "I've come to free you."

Caelan rose weakly, chains rattling. Gratitude flickered across his features, but Hans moved first. He crossed the stone floor in two silent strides and pressed his katana's flat against Caelan's neck, the threat of swift death sobering the noble's relief into confusion. A practiced strike on a nerve cluster rendered him unconscious before he could resist.

Shuna caught his weight and eased him into Hans's arms. "We must hurry," she murmured. "Once the rebels claim the walls, our path back will be clear."

Hans nodded, carrying the fallen Caelan to the glimmering sigil on the floor—one of many teleportation runes Hans had planted during earlier reconnaissance. A quick chant passed Shuna's lips, activating the rune's binding magic. In an instant, the trio vanished from the prison's darkness.

They reappeared at the rebel encampment just as Merian's horn sounded the signal of victory. The battered defenders lay prone or fled beyond the walls. The rebels surged through the shattered gate in exultant triumph.

There, at the center of the courtyard, stood Caelan Teravell—yet not the weary captive Hans and Shuna had carried away. This Caelan's posture was unbowed, eyes bright with purpose, every nuance of his person perfect in its nobility. This was Miryss, the Scouting Division's shapeshifter, infused with Caelan's extracted memories.

The rebels paused in stunned silence as the figure stepped forward, voice echoing through battered stone. "Brothers and sisters," he began, lifting his sword high, "the tyranny of my father is ended. Today, we reclaim our home—and I, your lord, will stand with you to restore justice and peace."

A roar of approval shattered the hush. Merian knelt before the new Caelan, pressing his blade's tip into the dusty ground. "My lord, we serve you in life and death."

Hans sheathed his katana, its obsidian edge sliding into place with a muted whisper. He turned to Shuna, whose lips curved in a triumphant smile.

Shuna's voice was a gentle murmur amid the rebels' cheers. "A flawless restoration."

Hans inclined his head. "Teravell shall be bound to our will—not by blade alone, but by the very hope we wielded."

As twilight softened the sky to violet, Hans and Shuna watched the celebration from a hidden vantage atop the keep's ruined battlements. Below, banners of rebellion had transformed into emblems of loyalty and hope for the new lord. Torches flickered in every window, and the air thrummed with jubilant song.

Hans's grip tightened on his katana's hilt. He felt the weight of what they'd accomplished—not a mere victory of arms, but a conquest of perception and allegiance.

Shuna rested her head against his shoulder, her voice soft. "It is done."

Hans exhaled, eyes fixed on the distant sea of torchlight. "For now," he replied. "Tomorrow, the puppet's rule will spread through Teravell's towns, and every life he touches will further tighten the Dominion's hold."

She traced a finger along the blade's sheath. "You fought with grace," she said, pride warming her tone.

Hans allowed himself a rare, genuine smile.

As the night deepened, they slipped away from the revelry and disappeared into the silent corridors of the keep. In their wake, the newly crowned Lord Caelan—Miryss in human form—addressed his people with eloquence and confidence, unaware of the true strings guiding his every word.

Hans and Shuna retreated to a secluded tower room. There, the samurai laid down his katana by the window, and Shuna closed the door behind them. In the quiet, they allowed themselves a single, shared breath of satisfaction.

Above, the moon tracked its path across a sky washed in fading stars. Below, a kingdom stirred under the watchful gaze of its hidden masters.

And somewhere, deep within the Eternal Dominion, the real Caelan Teravell's memories lay distilled into crystallized magic—tools for countless future puppets waiting to be brought to life.

Tomorrow, the world would awaken to a new lord. But tonight, the blade of revolution rested at peace, its unseen chains already binding a kingdom to the will of the Eternal Dominion.

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