They gathered in silence.
Not reverence.
Tension.
The rebels of the Crimson Order circled the open stone hollow beneath the chapel—dusty floor, half-collapsed columns, rusted chains hanging like broken halos above. Fires crackled in corners. Eyes gleamed in the dark.
Leonis stood at the center, cloak pulled back, the faint runes beneath his skin pulsing gently.
Across from him stood a man that towered like a wall of meat and scars.
Thorn Marrek.
A veteran of twenty purges. Revenant-touched. Tattoos burned into skin that had forgotten how to die. His voice was rough, but clear.
"I don't follow ghosts."
Kael sat nearby, chewing on dried fruit like it was theater.
Leonis said nothing.
Thorn stalked in a slow circle. "You let them escape. You fed them fear, fine. But fear won't hold this city. Fear won't stop the next purge team. Or the one after."
Leonis still didn't speak.
"You want to sit where the Collector sat?" Thorn gestured to the broken stone seat behind them—a throne made from the collapsed bones of the first chapel altar. "Then bleed for it."
The Court said nothing.
They didn't stop him.
This was the law down here.
Trial by combat.
Kael muttered under his breath: "Ten gold says he doesn't even draw."
A rebel beside him whispered, "You're mad."
"Maybe."
Thorn charged.
Fast, for a mountain.
His first swing was a war axe pulled from his back—jagged, blood-wet. The kind of weapon that didn't cut, but broke.
Leonis moved just enough to let it pass.
The second swing came faster. Leonis ducked. A third. A kick. A roar.
Leonis didn't strike.
Not yet.
"System Query: Combat engagement active. Do you wish to engage lethal mode?"
"No."
He dodged again—barely.
Then he whispered something.
Thorn didn't hear it.
But the Court did.
"You're already tired."
Thorn growled.
Swung again.
Slower this time.
Leonis caught his wrist.
Not hard. Not rough.
Like he was calming a child.
And then—
He leaned in, pressed his forehead to Thorn's, and said:
"They made you a weapon. You don't have to die one."
Thorn froze.
For a long, painful second, nothing moved.
Then his axe clattered to the ground.
And Thorn dropped to one knee.
The Court murmured.
A ripple moved through them.
Kael didn't speak.
He watched.
Watched Leonis walk—slowly, deliberately—to the throne of dirt and bone.
He sat.
Not like a king.
Like a grave.
And said:
"We do not run."
"We do not bow."
"And we do not waste what still breathes."
"We rise. One inch. One kill. One fear at a time."
"Gather what you have."
"We march by nightfall."
The rebels stood.
One by one.
Kael clapped once, slowly.
And whispered, "Long live the corpse king."