Fists raised high. Pride restored.
I looked around the room at the masterpiece I had just created.
For a brief moment, there was silence—not of fear, but of awe. The kind that comes when something long-dead begins to stir again.
A man stepped forward from the crowd. His clothes hung from him like wet cloth, his skin pale from hunger. But his eyes... they burned.
"I will follow you," he said, voice raspy—but steady.
Another voice echoed from the back, this one firmer.
"I will, too."
A woman rose next. She didn't look as frail. If anything, there was strength in her shoulders. But grief clung to her like a shadow.
She took a breath. Her voice trembled.
"What is your name, mister?"
I paused—just for a moment.
"Adolf Hitler."
She didn't flinch.
"Then I will follow you too, Mister Hitler."
And just like that, something shifted.
This wasn't just a bar anymore.
It was the beginning of a cause.
"A big movement? No."
"But a fire? Yes."
And fire spreads. All it needs is a breath. And I am here.
Then came the crash.
A thunderous BOOM! shook the bar as an iron boot slammed into the old wooden door.
The hinges gave way with a shriek of metal, and the entire door cracked off its frame, exploding inward in a rain of splinters.
Wooden shards clattered across the floor. The impact echoed like a gunshot in the tight room—killing every cheer, every breath.
Then came the sound of iron on wood—clang… thunk… clang…—as armored boots stomped through the smoke of dust and debris.
Figures emerged. Beasts, not men. Clad in dull gray iron from head to heel. Their breastplates bore a brutal emblem: a red claw crushing a broken crown.
The first soldier stepped forward, he wore no head gear. His armor creaked with cold purpose.
One by one, the others followed—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
Within seconds, I was surrounded.
Swords hissed from their scabbards and locked in at my throat. Dozens of blades, steady as statues, their tips hovering inches from flesh.
No escape. No words. One wrong move, and I'd be nothing but a memory.
The creature in the middle shifted slightly — armor creaking — then opened his mouth, blowing away the silence like dust in a storm.
His voice was cold, sharp, and rehearsed — not barked like a soldier, but delivered like a judge handing down a sentence he already enjoyed writing.
"By order of Baron Kaedros Vellin…"
"You are under arrest for inciting rebellion against the Crown and the Kingdom of Larrak… false propaganda… spreading dissent among the lower races… disturbing the peace of the kingdom… and undermining the authority of the noble class."
Each charge was spoken with deliberate weight — not for my sake, but for the crowd's .A warning. A reminder.
The room shifted.
Some eyes fell to the floor, shoulders sagging under old chains. The fire I had sparked only moments ago began to flicker — but not die.
A few still stood firm. Faces tense. Eyes sharp. In them, something ancient stirred. A quiet fury. The kind that doesn't scream or lash out. The kind that waits. That remembers.
Then the commander raised his chin.
"How do you plead?"
The room held its breath.
I looked him in the eye.
"Guilty," I said — without flinch, without fear.
A pause.
Just long enough for the words to settle like dust on a coffin.
"Then by decree of Baron Kaedros Vellin," the commander announced, "you are hereby sentenced to death — by hanging."
Not a soul moved. Not a sound was made.
Only the fire in a few stubborn hearts — and the quiet thought that something had just been set in motion.
Without delay, all the soldiers sheathed their blades — quick, practiced, and perfectly in sync. The metal rang out in unison, like a single final note at the end of a grim ceremony.
No flinch. No words.
One stepped forward from the line, moving behind me with silent precision. I heard the faint rustle of rope in his gloved hands — rough fiber brushing against armor. He bound my wrists tightly, the knots swift and unforgiving. Not a wasted motion. Not an ounce of mercy.
Another approached — towering, broad, with the face and body of a minotaur. His heavy steps thudded across the wooden floor like distant drums. He didn't speak.
He simply wrapped a coarse cloth around my head — fast, almost violent. My hat was knocked loose, hitting the ground with a dull, lonely thump.
Darkness swallowed everything. Only breath. Only rope. Only silence.
But they were wrong.
They thought they'd ended something.
In truth… they gave it a name.
Let them hang me. Let them cheer.
Fire doesn't die in shadow.
It spreads.