Revolution

"Come in," Alburn said, his voice calm but edged with weariness.

The door creaked open, and a man entered. He bowed low, a gesture of respect that did nothing to hide the tension in his posture.

Alburn didn’t look up immediately. His focus remained on the papers before him as if considering whether this interruption warranted his attention. Finally, he placed the papers aside and lifted his gaze, sharp and discerning.

"Well?" Alburn asked.

The man straightened. "I have news regarding Mr Vials, sir."

That caught Alburn’s attention. He leaned back in his chair, his hands now resting on the armrests, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Go on."

The man hesitated, as though weighing his words carefully. "Nicholas is proving to be difficult. He’s been—poking around where he shouldn’t. Incredibly rebellious. It seems he’s deliberately acting against his father’s interests, perhaps to spite him."

"Do you know the nature of his actions?"

The man shook his head. It was a refusal to speak more. "He's been working with the Baracks,"

Alburn raised a brow, though his expression remained otherwise impassive.

"There’s more," the man continued. "He was recently involved in an explosion—he survived, but it was close. Too close."

Alburn sighed, the weight of the news pressing on him like an unwelcome burden. He drummed his fingers lightly on the armrest, his mind working quickly.

"Keep an eye on him," he said finally. "Watch every move he makes. If he does anything else... report to me directly."

The man nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face at the dismissal. "Yes, sir."

As the door closed behind him, Alburn sat still for a moment, staring at the now-empty space where the man had stood. The thought of Nicholas’s reckless behavior gnawed at him. There was a sense of guilt buried deep within, though he refused to examine it too closely. He had responsibilities, and Nicholas’s actions—however foolish—could not interfere with them.

Pushing back his chair, Alburn stood. He reached for his coat, intending to leave and clear his head. But just as he turned toward the door, the faintest sound of movement reached his ears.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible—the whisper of fabric against the floor.

Alburn reacted instinctively. As the attacker lunged from the shadows, Alburn sidestepped with ease. His hand shot out, grabbing the assailant’s wrist and twisting it sharply. The knife clattered to the ground.

Before the attacker could recover, Alburn seized the blade and turned it on him, driving it into his side brutally. The man gasped, staggering back, his hands clutching at the wound.

Alburn’s heart pounded as he stared at the fallen figure. He had no time to dwell on the attack; he already knew what it meant.

Baldwin.

The thought sent a jolt of fear through him. Alburn sprinted from the office, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls. His voice rang out, calling Baldwin’s name as he descended the grand staircase two steps at a time.

But as he reached the bottom, the scene that greeted him stopped him cold.

His wife stood at the far end of the hall, her back pressed against the wall. She was cornered by a few hooded figures, the knives in their hands gleamed. They were completely surrounded by the guards Alburn had hired to protect them.

"Stop!" Alburn shouted, his voice thunderous, reverberating off the walls.

The men turned to him, their expressions unreadable.

"Step away from her," Alburn commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

One of the guards stepped forward, his grip tightening on his gun. "Drop the knife and we should let you go,"

"Step away," Alburn repeated, his tone icy. "That’s my family you’re threatening."

But there was no hesitation as they drove the knife into Mrs Alburn. She let out a blood curdling scream as the man slashed her entire chest open.

Between the noise of his life-long partner dying, Victoria’s cry and the echo of shots fired, he saw just a glimpse of what the future held. There was little doubt this would tear down these very walls that protected them. He had heard stories, tales from faraway kings. This is how it always had to end.

In just a moments the three men fell to the ground, their faces drained of all colour. Mrs Alburn’s lifeless body jerked forward, letting out a final breath.

The room was eerily silent except for the sound of Victoria's wailing cries, which echoed through the grand hall like a haunting refrain. Her boots clanged loudly against the wooden floor as she descended the spiral staircase. Her legs trembling under the weight of what she had just witnessed.

Her father stood motionless, his face pale and ashen. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in uneven intervals. His mind could not fully process what had transpired.

Victoria reached the bottom of the stairs, her sobs breaking into sharp gasps. She stumbled forward, throwing herself against her father’s arm. Her hands clutched at his sleeve, her nails digging into the fabric and biting into his skin, but he didn’t move.

"Papa!" she cried, her voice raw with anguish. "What—what just happened?"

Foust Alburn’s lips parted, but no sound came. He glanced down at her, his eyes hollow, and then back at the lifeless body of his wife, crumpled on the floor in a pool of crimson.

"Victoria," he finally managed, his voice hoarse and uneven. "I... I don’t..."

He couldn’t find the words. His gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an explanation, for some sign that this was all an illusion. But the cold air against his skin, the metallic scent of blood, and the unbearable weight of his daughter clinging to him—all of it was too real.

Victoria screamed, shaking his arm violently. "Why is she dead? What did you do? What happened?"

Alburn flinched, but before he could respond, the doors to the hall burst open. Baldwin stormed in, his boots slamming against the floor with a force that matched the fury in his eyes. He stopped short when he saw the scene before him.

For a moment, Baldwin didn’t move. His chest heaved as he took in the carnage—the guards lying motionless, the blood splattered across the floor, and at the center of it all, their mother. His face drained of color, his hands clenched into fists.

"Mother," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Victoria turned to her brother, her sobs renewing with ferocity. "Brother!" she cried, reaching out to him as though he could provide some solace.

But Baldwin didn’t move toward her. His eyes were fixed on their mother and the blood staining her clothes.

"What happened?" Baldwin demanded, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained rage.

Alburn met his son’s gaze, his own eyes bloodshot and rimmed with grief. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen," Alburn finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They—your mother—they..."

"They killed her!" Baldwin shouted, his voice echoing through the hall.

Alburn snapped, the sharpness of his tone startling both of his children. "I didn’t—" He stopped himself, inhaling sharply. "I tried to protect her."

Baldwin took a step forward, his expression twisted with disbelief.

"I didn’t let her die!" Alburn roared, his voice cracking. "I tried—I did everything I could—"

Baldwin turned to the guards, their guns still waiving in the air. "What were you doing?" He shouted as he landed a blow one of his own.

Victoria sank to her knees, her cries turning into a low, mournful wail. "Stop it," she murmured. "Both of you, just stop."

But the two men ignored her. Baldwin stepped closer, his face inches from the guards. "You’re supposed to keep us safe. That was your job. Your only job. And now look at her. Look at what you’ve done!"

Victoria crawled forward, her hands shaking as she reached for her mother. She stopped just short of a few inches of her mother, her hand hovering over her as though afraid the slightest contact would shatter whatever fragile hold she had on reality.

"Mama," she whispered, her voice broken. Tears streamed down her face, pooling on the blood-stained floor.

Alburn watched her, his heart shattering into pieces he didn’t know how to put back together. He stepped forward, kneeling beside her, his hand hovering over her shoulder.

Baldwin stumbled back, his head pounding, his feet failing to carry his weight as he stepped back into the sun.

His eyes were wide in horror. The Alburn family had gotten its first taste of retribution.