The Distant Thrones
Far to the north, in the crystalline courts of the High Elves, Lord Aired Vastina reclined in his silver chair as a courier finished his report.
"Rebellion in Greymoor. The peasants whisper of gods descended. Halbrecht struggles to maintain order. Last night, his supply caravans were destroyed. He has lost grain, knights, and the people's faith."
Vastina steepled his long fingers, eyes glowing faintly. "So the whispers are true. The sky demons live."
His spymaster bowed. "Shall we intervene, my lord?"
"No," Vastina said smoothly. "A small domain tearing itself apart is no threat to the High Houses. Let the pig and his peasants bleed each other dry. When the dust settles, we will collect what remains."
In a gilded salon far to the west, Lady Stéphanie de Courvoisier laughed behind her jeweled fan. "Oh, how delicious. Halbrecht boils his people alive, and they call strangers gods in rebellion. It's theater. Bloody, vulgar theater. And I, for one, adore it."
Her courtiers chuckled nervously.
She leaned forward, her eyes sharp despite her smile. "Do nothing. Watch. Let Halbrecht sink. If these sky-men are truly gods, they will prove it. If not, they will hang, and we will laugh."
And so, the Ten Great Houses watched from their lofty towers — unmoving, uncaring. To them, Greymoor was a sideshow, a play acted on a peasant's stage. For them the The sky demons are not threat.
But to the peasants of Greymoor, its war.
Bread, Blood, and Celebration
The cellar was overflowing with noise that night. For the first time in weeks, bellies were full. Rebels tore into stolen bread, salted pork, and boiled grain, laughing between mouthfuls.
Children gnawed at scraps, their eyes wide as they looked up at the three "sky lords" who had made the feast possible.
A scarred farmer raised his cup, spilling ale down his chin. "To the gods who bleed with us!"
The cheer shook the cellar walls.
Kael sat back against a barrel, trying to mask his exhaustion. "Jesus Christ, we're feeding them with their own master's food. Halbrecht must be shitting himself right now."
Riven grinned wolfishly, slamming his cup down. "Fuck yeah, he is. Look at 'em. A week ago, these people were peasants pissing themselves at the sight of a knight. Now? They're laughing, eating, ready for war. We made this."
Damian said nothing at first, only watching the rebels with sharp, measuring eyes. Then, quietly, he spoke: "This was necessary. But it is only the beginning."
Kael groaned. "Can't we just enjoy one night of not planning the apocalypse?"
Riven barked a laugh. "Nope. Damian's already five steps ahead, plotting how to flay Halbrecht alive."
Damian's cold gaze shifted to them both. "Not flay. Replace. He rules with fear. We will rule with strength. Tonight, they follow us out of desperation. Tomorrow, they must follow out of belief. We need a banner. A structure. A future."
The rebels nearby leaned in, listening, though they barely understood the words.
Kael muttered, "So you're really serious about this Clan or House thing."
Damian's lips curved faintly. "I don't joke."
Riven raised his cup. "Then here's to the House of…whatever the fuck we end up calling it. Next strike?"
Damian tapped the map pinned to the wall. "The granaries. Halbrecht's stockpiles. If they burn, his city starves."
The cellar went silent.
Kael exhaled slowly. "You're really trying to starve out a lord. Old-school siege tactics."
Damian nodded. "Starvation breeds desperation. Desperation breeds rebellion. When his people curse him, they'll turn to us."
The rebels erupted in cheers again, emboldened by the promise of another victory.
The rebellion was no longer just survival. It was strategy.
Meanwhile, at Greymoor Castle, the feast of the rebels became a funeral of rage.
Lord Halbrecht stormed into the great hall, his fat cheeks flushed purple, wine spilling from his trembling goblet. The charred remnants of the supply caravan had been dragged before him — bloodied banners, broken swords, sacks of grain cut open and emptied onto the floor like spilled entrails.
"Gone!" he roared, stamping his boot in the mess. "Food for the winter, stolen by peasants! Knights, butchered by farmers with sticks!"
His captains bowed their heads, silent.
Halbrecht's jowls quivered with fury. "This is insult! This is mockery! I am Lord of Greymoor! And I am made to look a fool by dirt-eating whoresons and their sky demons!?"
He hurled his goblet at the wall, wine splattering down like blood.
"Bring me names!" he shrieked. "Spies, conspirators, priests — I don't care! Hang them all! Burn the slums! Tear the flesh from their bones if you must!"
One captain dared to whisper: "My lord… the more we kill, the more join them. The people fear—"
Halbrecht's face contorted. He seized a carving knife from the feast table and buried it into the man's chest. The captain gasped, blood bubbling from his lips, before collapsing at Halbrecht's feet.
The hall went silent but for the lord's ragged breathing.
Halbrecht licked his lips, his eyes wild. "Let them fear. Let them see their god-kings cannot save them from me."
But in the shadows of the court, even his knights whispered what he would not admit:
The pig was bleeding.
And the gods were rising.
Fire in the Granaries
Midnight cloaked Greymoor in silence, broken only by the distant howl of wolves. The rebels crept like shadows through the back alleys, guided by Damian's ruthless planning and Kael's makeshift maps.
Ahead loomed the granary district: three massive stone warehouses, stuffed with the harvest that would feed Halbrecht's men through winter. Guards patrolled lazily around the perimeter, their torches bobbing like fireflies in the dark.
Damian's voice was low, controlled. "We divide into three groups. Kael, you light the eastern storehouse. Riven, you take the western. I'll lead the strike on the central one. We leave nothing. Burn it all."
Kael's hands trembled as he held his clay pot of oil. "You're aware this is, like, a capital war crime, right? Starving civilians?"
Damian's cold eyes didn't flicker. "This isn't war crime. It's war."
Riven grinned savagely, spinning his chain. "Let's torch the pig's pantry."
The first scream cut through the night as Riven's chain cracked against a guard's skull, dropping him instantly. Rebels surged forward, spears and pitchforks stabbing through armor before the patrols could react.
Kael hurled his first oil jar against the wooden door of the eastern granary, flames exploding as it splashed across dry grain sacks inside. The fire spread hungrily, climbing up beams, turning the storehouse into a roaring inferno.
Damian moved with clinical precision, cutting down two guards in silence before shoving a torch into the central granary's window slit. Within seconds, smoke billowed upward.
The guards shouted in panic, running to contain the blaze — but every bucket line collapsed under rebel ambush. Arrows rained from the shadows, rebels screaming battle cries as fire spread from storehouse to storehouse.
By dawn, the granaries were nothing but charred husks, flames licking the sky.
Halbrecht's food was gone.
The rebels melted back into the alleys before reinforcements arrived, laughter mixing with the crackle of fire.
For the second time, the "sky gods" had struck a blow no peasant should have been able to imagine.
And the city awoke hungry.
Whispers in the Streets
By morning, Greymoor buzzed with rumor. Markets were silent, bread stalls empty, but the people's tongues were alive with fire.
"I saw it with my own eyes," muttered an old woman, clutching her shawl. "The gods descended in smoke and flame. They burned Halbrecht's grain as punishment for his sins."
"Nonsense," hissed a butcher, though his hands trembled. "It was rebels. Farmers with blades. But—" he glanced around nervously "—farmers don't move like that. They fought like knights. Like something else."
A tavern filled with whispers:
"They say the gods walk among us, masked as men."
"They say one god wields fire, another chains, another wields death itself."
"They say the Familia is rising."
Children in the streets played at being "sky lords," one swinging a stick like Riven's chain, another drawing maps in the dirt like Kael.
Even in fear, there was awe.
Halbrecht's decrees grew harsher with each day, his punishments more brutal. But every act of cruelty fed the fire.
The peasants no longer whispered Halbrecht's name.
They whispered theirs.