The Rebels are No More

January 12th, 1690 – Fort Cervo, Occupied by Elysean Forces.

The air was crisp and carried the faint scent of salt from the nearby sea as Prince Bruno de Elysea stepped off his carriage. The prince, clad in a dark blue military coat adorned with silver trim, adjusted his gloves and surveyed the scene before him. Fort Cervo, once the defiant bastion of rebellion on Corse, now bore the scars of conquest. Its towering walls were blackened with soot, and the courtyard remained a patchwork of rubble and hastily cleared debris. Yet, the fort stood under Elysean control.

Soldiers lined the path from the outer gates to the battered keep, their uniforms pristine despite the chaos that had transpired only a week prior. Muskets rested against their shoulders, and their boots gleamed in the morning sunlight. Their posture was impeccable, every man standing stiffly at attention as the prince passed, their eyes locked straight ahead.

Flanked by his personal guards, Bruno walked with measured steps, his polished boots crunching softly against the gravel. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as if the destruction around him was merely an expected consequence of war. The soft murmur of a distant breeze and the faint creak of leather harnesses were the only sounds that accompanied him.

At the far end of the path, in front of the keep's crumbling façade, General Berthold stood in sharp contrast to the ruins around him. His uniform bore the wear of battle—a small tear on one sleeve, soot stains on the hem—but it was meticulously maintained. His sword hung at his side, its polished hilt catching the light, and his hands were clasped behind his back. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, he radiated the composure of a seasoned commander.

As the prince approached, the soldiers lining the path snapped to salute in perfect unison. Bruno's expression remained unchanged, though he acknowledged their discipline with a subtle nod. His gaze shifted to Berthold, who stood resolute, his eyes fixed forward in anticipation.

When Bruno stopped a few paces away, Berthold brought his heels together and bowed deeply, his voice crisp and authoritative as he spoke.

"Your Highness, welcome to Fort Cervo. The rebellion has been crushed, and the fort is secure under Elysean control. All has been prepared for your inspection."

Bruno regarded the general for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the man who had orchestrated this victory. 

Then, with a faint smile, he replied, "Well done, General Berthold. Your efficiency and discipline are to be commended. Few could have achieved what you and your men have here."

Berthold straightened, though he did not allow himself to appear overly proud. "Thank you, Your Highness. The men performed admirably. Their discipline and sacrifice were crucial in bringing this campaign to a swift conclusion."

Bruno's gaze drifted past Berthold to the keep, its damaged façade standing as a grim reminder of the battle that had unfolded within. "The keep," he said, his tone contemplative. "Does it still stand as a symbol of defiance, or have we ensured its legacy is that of a failed rebellion?"

"It stands only as a ruin now," Berthold replied. "The last remnants of resistance fell within these walls. The Rebels fought fiercely, but they were outmatched. Their commander, Vittorio Salvi, fought to the very end. He refused to surrender, even when all hope was lost."

Bruno's lips pressed into a thin line. "And his men?"

"Most were killed in the fighting. The few who survived are being held as prisoners. They will await your orders regarding their fate."

Bruno nodded absently, his thoughts momentarily elsewhere. Then, with a sharp turn, he gestured toward the keep. "Show me the aftermath. I want to see for myself the price of this victory."

"Of course, Your Highness." Berthold turned and motioned for the prince to follow him toward the crumbling structure.

As they approached the keep, the soldiers standing nearby saluted once more. The air grew heavier, the shadows of the ruined walls casting long stretches of darkness across the courtyard. The prince's steps slowed as he crossed the threshold into the remnants of the rebel stronghold, his eyes scanning the scorched stone and scattered remnants of barricades.

"Tell me, General," Bruno said, his voice cutting through the silence, "what do you make of these rebels? Are they fools, or do they possess something more dangerous—conviction?"

Berthold hesitated for a moment before answering. "They were not fools, Your Highness. They fought with the conviction of men who believed in their cause. But conviction alone does not win wars. Strategy and strength prevailed, as they always do."

Bruno paused, resting a gloved hand on the jagged edge of a broken wall. "Conviction can be a dangerous thing, General. If it lingers, if it festers, it can spark another rebellion. We must ensure this island understands the futility of resistance."

Berthold inclined his head. "Your Highness, the victory here has shattered their morale. Corse will be pacified, and any lingering resistance will be dealt with swiftly."

The prince's gaze lingered on the ruins for a moment longer before he turned to face Berthold. "See to it, General. I want Corse to remember this day not as a tragedy, but as a lesson in the unassailable strength of Elysea. Leave nothing to chance."

"As you command, Your Highness," Berthold replied, his voice steady.

Bruno's eyes swept the courtyard once more before he took a step back, his expression inscrutable. 

"Let us finish this inspection. There is much to be done, and I have no intention of lingering in this place longer than necessary."

"As for the prisoners of war, Your Highness? What are we to do about them?" General Berthold asked.

"Hmm…" Bruno hummed as he contemplated. "Well, we can't let them live, they are a symbol of rebellion. If we are to spare them, there will come a time where they will revolt if opportunity comes. So, execute them, General." 

"As you wish, Your Highness."