The Eyes of the World
The story of Greymoor spread like wildfire. Merchants carried it along the trade roads, bards exaggerated it in taverns, and spies whispered it in noble courts.
A tyrant lord, toppled. Sky-gods in mortal flesh, leading peasants and rebels. Executions and justice delivered in public squares. Reforms that seemed like sorcery — clean water, hot baths, stronger crops.
Every hall of power in the world soon heard the rumors.
House of Cazwyn
In the Southwest, in the marble palaces of Cazwyn, Lady Valerica Cazwyn reclined on her cushioned throne, her feline eyes narrowing.
"They say these… gods… executed Halbrecht before his own people and yet turned his castle into something stronger than before. The peasants cheer, the markets stir. Hmph. Peasants should never cheer their rulers. That is unnatural."
Her advisors shifted uneasily. One murmured, "Should we intervene & inform your sister Lady Mirabel?"
Valerica only smiled, her jeweled fingers curling around her goblet. "No. Not yet. No need to inform my sister, I'm confident that she knows about it."
House of Vastina
In the enchanted woods of the Elves, Lord Aired Vastina listened to the reports beneath silver boughs. His long, sharp face remained calm, but his voice carried weight.
"Three outlanders rise, the people chant their names, and now they alter the very balance of cities. This is not a mere rebellion. This is… contagion."
A younger elf sneered. "Mortals play at gods. They will burn themselves out."
Aired shook his head. "Do not underestimate them. Knowledge itself can be more dangerous than steel. If they teach peasants to grow stronger crops and build cleaner cities, the old order will crumble beneath them. Even the forests are not immune to fire."
House of Courvoisier
In a glittering court of marble and mirrors, Lady Stéphanie de Courvoisier sipped wine while her courtiers laughed at the latest rumors.
"Sky gods? Plumbing? Laws written by commoners?" She smirked, her jeweled gown catching the light. "Peasants are so easily amused. Give them hot water and they'll kiss your feet."
Her tone sharpened. "But if the mob can be swayed so easily… then perhaps we should watch. If they truly can bend cities to their will, they may yet bend armies."
House of Claybrook
Lord Nicholas Claybrook, old and weary, sat by candlelight in his drafty fortress. He listened as his steward recited the tales.
At last he sighed. "So the world changes again. Once it was kings and priests. Then came lords and knights. Now… sky-gods with strange knowledge. Change never favors the old."
His steward asked if they should send riders. Nicholas shook his head. "Not yet. Best to see whether they survive the winter."
In the courts of the Top Ten — from the dwarven halls of Wyvernhand to the silken salons of Ballesteros — whispers grew louder.
Some scoffed, dismissing VAC as upstart rebels who would choke on their own chaos.
Others schemed, already imagining alliances, marriages, assassins.
And a few, the most dangerous, wondered if perhaps these newcomers were exactly what the world had been waiting for: disruptors who could topple the ancient balance.
Back in Greymoor
The messengers who carried these rumors never stopped. And though VAC did not yet know it, their names were already spoken in every council chamber, every war tent, every shadowed hall across the continent.
The Boar of Greymoor had fallen. But the world was waking up to something far greater — a house born of rebellion, innovation, and fire.
The House of Voss Arclight Cross.
And the old order would never be the same.
The Mundane Grind
Greymoor smelled less of blood now and more of smoke, wood, and sweat. The caravans from Hollowmere rolled in daily, their wheels groaning under sacks of grain and barrels of salted fish. Markets reopened, taverns filled again, and the streets no longer looked like a graveyard.
But ruling was far from glorious.
Kael buried himself in ledgers, teeth grinding as he tried to balance the food distribution. "If we give full rations to the militia, the peasants will riot. If we starve the militia, the walls will fall. Gods damn it, we need twice the food we have."
Damian was in the courtyards, enforcing drills. Rebels who once fought like brawlers now learned discipline: shield formations, proper spear lines, nightly watches. More than one drunkard was beaten into shape under his orders.
Riven, meanwhile, stalked the workshops. He bullied blacksmiths into hammering out sturdier blades, sketched crude plans for reinforced carts, even built a pulley system to haul stones for repairing the walls. "One day," he muttered proudly, "we'll have machines that make these bastards piss themselves."
The people began to notice strange miracles.
New iron plows cut through soil like butter. Wells were fitted with rope-and-pulley buckets that children could draw water from. Wooden pipes began creeping through the city, carrying waste away from the streets.
"They make the filth vanish underground," peasants whispered.
"They can draw water like magic!"
"They don't just rule… they fix things."
Every little improvement fed the legend.
The Sulfur Mines
It was during a routine report that a scout mentioned something peculiar.
"My lords," he said, bowing before the dais, "north of the river cliffs, we found caves with yellow stone… foul-smelling, burns when thrown in the fire."
Kael's head snapped up. "Sulfur?"
Riven grinned like a wolf. "Oh, hell yes."
Damian narrowed his eyes. "Sulfur alone is nothing. But if we can find saltpeter…"
Kael was already pacing, muttering half-remembered formulas. "Charcoal, saltpeter, sulfur… black powder. Gunpowder."
A silence fell. Even the attending scribes shifted uneasily at the word.
Later, in the war room, the three huddled with Sir Aldric, who had been summoned to hear their mad idea.
Kael: "If we refine it properly, pack it tight, it explodes. Loud, devastating, unlike anything this world has seen."
Riven: (smirking) "Imagine a battlefield where instead of arrows, we rain thunder on the bastards."
Damian: "It's dangerous. If we rush it, we'll blow ourselves to bits before we ever use it on the enemy."
Aldric frowned, his scarred face unreadable. "You speak of fire… fire that roars like a dragon, fire that can be tamed and thrown? Such things are… blasphemy."
Kael leaned forward, voice low and sharp. "Not blasphemy, Aldric. Progress. Think of walls crumbling in moments. Think of knights cut down at a distance. This world fights with steel and bowstrings. We fight with fire and thunder. Do you see the difference?"
Aldric hesitated, then nodded slowly. "If such a weapon can be forged… Greymoor will never fall again."
Riven grinned. "Good. Then tomorrow we start digging up that yellow shit, and we'll see if we can turn it into a god's roar."
The House of VAC had won its throne with rebellion and blood. Now it was poised to win the future with fire and powder.
And somewhere deep inside the caves of Greymoor, the first sparks of a revolution waited to be born.