The man watched Rafael warily as he stood over the fallen guards. But when Rafael knelt and began searching their belts—hands moving quickly, efficiently—for keys, something in the man's expression shifted.
He wasn't here to torture him, but to free him. A soft clink echoed as Rafael found them. He crossed to the cell and unlocked it. The door creaked open. The man inside didn't move.
He sat slumped against the wall, legs drawn weakly toward his chest. He was young—no older than his early twenties—with brown hair matted to his forehead and dull brown eyes ringed by swollen black bruises. His face was marked with old and fresh wounds alike, lips split, skin discoloured. A torn tunic hung loosely from his frame, stained dark with blood and grime.
Rafael stepped inside and crouched beside him. "Easy," he said quietly. He helped the man to his feet, supporting most of his weight as they staggered out of the cell.
After a moment, the man spoke, voice hoarse. "Who… who are you?" "My name is Rafael," he replied. "I'm here to get you out." The man let out a weak, disbelieving breath. "Why?" he asked. "I don't even know you." Rafael didn't slow. "Because I need your help."
They started toward the stairs. "Tonight," Rafael continued, "we're going to expose your father." The man froze—pain forcing him to stop rather than choice. "That won't end well," he said grimly. "My father will kill you." Rafael met his gaze. "If you do exactly as I say, I won't fail."
They climbed the steps slowly, the man groaning with every movement. Rafael tightened his grip, steadying him. "I'm sorry," Rafael said quietly. "I could heal you, but I need you like this for the plan to work."
The man sucked in a sharp breath. "Heal me?" He glanced at him through swollen eyes. "Are you a diviner?" Rafael shook his head. "No, not really"
They reached the basement door. "And what kind of plan needs a man half-dead?" the man asked. Rafael pushed the door open just enough to peer through. "I don't need a wounded man," he said evenly. "I need the wounded son of the chief." The words landed heavily. The man said nothing after that.
As they moved up the stairs leading back into the main house, Rafael asked, "What do I call you?" "…Leif," he answered. Rafael nodded. "Nice to meet you, Leif."
At the top, Rafael cracked the door and scanned the hall. Guards stood by the door blocking the exit. For a moment, he prepared himself to fight.
Then Leif lifted a trembling hand and pointed down the corridor. "That room," he whispered. "It's mine. No guards stand there—there's nothing worth guarding." Rafael hesitated only a second before guiding him forward. The room was unlocked. Dust coated the floor. The air was stale. A single window sat at the far wall.
Rafael rushed to it and pushed it open. Below, guards lingered—but far enough away to miss them. Rafael extended his hand. Shadows poured outward, wrapping gently around Leif's body, lifting him with careful precision and lowering him outside. Leif stifled a cry, eyes wide in terror at the unnatural power.
Rafael followed, dropping silently beside him. They didn't stop running until they were clear of the compound. Soon, the streets opened before them. Leif limped heavily, Rafael just behind him, guiding his steps.
People stared. Whispers spread. "Is that… Leif?" "What happened to him?" "The chief's son—look at him…" Rafael led Leif into the main town square—the busiest place in the village. Even at night, it buzzed with life.
Rafael stopped. He turned to the crowd. From the shadows, a bell formed in his hand—solid, cold, real. He rang it hard. Once. Twice. Again.
The sound cut through the square, sharp and commanding. People stopped. Conversations died. Eyes turned toward him. When the crowd had fully gathered, Rafael let the bell dissolve into smoke. He reached up and removed his cloak. And faced the village.
Rafael stepped forward, his voice steady, carrying across the square.
"People of this village… look at him." He gestured to Leif.
"Look carefully. This is not the face of a criminal. This is not the body of a rebel. This is the chief's own son." A murmur spread through the crowd. "This," Rafael continued, "is what your leader does in secret." He turned slightly, allowing everyone to see Leif's injuries—the swollen eyes, the bruises, the way he could barely stand.
"He was beaten. Starved. Shackled in chains. Tortured in the basement of the very house meant to protect him."
Rafael's gaze hardened. "And why?" He paused. "Because he opposed his father's greed." The murmurs grew louder.
"Leif dared to stand against a marriage arranged not for love, not for peace—but for money. A deal made with another chief, where your leader would receive a steady tax. A payment. Coin flowing into his hands every month."
Rafael turned to the crowd fully now. "Tell me—did any of that money come to you?" Silence. "Did your homes grow warmer?" "Did your children eat better?" "Did the sick receive care?" He shook his head slowly. "No. It lined his pockets. It fed his comfort. It bought silence."
Rafael's voice dropped, heavy with anger. "And when his daughter refused to be sold like livestock…"
The crowd stiffened. "He beat her." Gasps rippled outward. "He tied her wrists. He bound her ankles. He broke her body again and again, telling her it was 'for the good of the village.'" Rafael clenched his fist.
"Tell me—what kind of man tortures his own daughter and calls it sacrifice?" The question hung in the air. "What kind of leader breaks his son's bones for daring to say 'no'?"
Rafael stepped closer to the people. "He calls himself your protector. Your chief....But a man who cannot love his own children will never love his people."
His eyes burned.
"He would sell his daughter for coin. He would crush his son to keep his power. And tomorrow—if it earned him more gold—he would do the same to you."
The square was dead silent now. Rafael finished quietly, but the words cut deeper than shouting. "This village does not need a chief who rules through fear." He looked down at Leif, then back at the crowd. "It needs justice."
Leif swayed slightly on his feet. Rafael reached out, steadying him—but Leif lifted a trembling hand. "I can speak," he said hoarsely.
The crowd leaned in. Leif swallowed, every movement clearly painful. When he spoke, his voice was weak—but honest. And that made it powerful. "My name is Leif," he said. "You all know me as the chief's son."
A ripple went through the square. "I wish I could tell you this is a lie. That this boy exaggerates." His gaze flicked briefly to Rafael, then back to the people. "But everything he said is true."
He took a shaky breath. "When my father arranged my sister's marriage, I opposed him. Not because I was reckless—but because I knew what that man was. I knew what he was doing was wrong.
"Leif clenched his jaw. "My father didn't argue with me. He didn't reason. He locked me in the basement." Gasps spread through the crowd. "He beat me until I couldn't stand. When I still refused, he chained me to the wall." His voice cracked. "He said a son who disobeys his father deserves pain."
Leif looked down at his hands. "I listened to my sister scream from the next room." The square erupted—outrage, disbelief, fury.
Leif raised his voice with effort. "She refused to submit. So he broke her. Over and over. And when that still wasn't enough, he ordered men to hunt her down like an animal when she escaped."
He lifted his head, eyes wet but burning. "She is his daughter." Silence fell again—thick, suffocating. "I was freed tonight," Leif continued, "because someone decided that this village deserved the truth."
He looked directly at the crowd. "My father told you he suffered for this village. That he made hard choices so you wouldn't have to."
Leif let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough.
"But he never suffered."
"He drank wine while we bled.""He counted coin while we screamed.""He called it duty."
Leif straightened as much as his battered body allowed. "I don't ask you to believe me because I am his son." He gestured to his wounds. "Believe me because this is what his rule looks like."
Then, quietly: "If he can do this to his own children…" His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried farther than a shout. "…I wonder what he would do to the rest of you?"
Leif bowed his head. "I will not protect him." The words hit like a hammer. "I will not lie for him." He looked up one last time. "And if you still choose to follow him after this—then know that you do so with open eyes."
The square erupted. Shouts. Anger. Rage. Cries of betrayal.
Rafael watched the village turn—slowly, inevitably—like a blade finally pointed in the right direction. Rafael knew his plan had succeeded. he looked down and smiled as the crowd roared for the chief's head.