The silence that followed the decree did not last long.

  A murmur of discontent rippled through the gathered prisoners, low at first, then rising into a growing wave of anger. Shackles clanked as some shifted uneasily. While others clenched their fists, their resentment boiling over.

  Then, a voice rang out—hoarse, defiant.

  "Lies! You call this freedom? Slavery under a different name!"

  A man, gaunt but with fire still burning in his eyes, stepped forward, his chains rattling with every movement. Others moved with him, some emboldened by his defiance, others simply unwilling to bow. Their numbers are few compared to the gathered masses, but the venom in their voices spread like a spark to dry tinder.

  "We have rotted in this tomb, abandoned and forgotten! Now, you want us to kneel?"

  A handful of prisoners surged forward, their intent clear—whether to strike down the speaker or force their way past the knights, it mattered little. The reaction was immediate.

  Steel flashed.

  The first to lunge barely had time to take two steps before a blade found his throat. Blood sprayed across the cold stone as he collapsed in a choking gasp. Another swung a broken shackle like a flail, only for a spear to punch clean through his chest, lifting him from the ground before being cast aside like refuse.

  The rebellion, if it could even be called that, was over in moments.

  The hall fell into a suffocating stillness, broken only by the sound of bodies hitting the floor. The knights did not hesitate and did not pause to offer warnings. They had done this before.

  The man who had spoken first—the one who had tried to rally the others—stood frozen, his defiance wavering as he stared at the corpses before him. When he finally turned back, it was to meet the gaze of a knight whose sword was already being raised. There was no plea in his eyes, only the bitter acceptance of one who knew the price of resistance.

  A single, clean stroke ended it.

  The remaining prisoners shrank back, their defiance reduced to quiet, seething resentment. Some averted their gazes. Others stared silent witnesses to what awaited those who refused.

  The spokesperson did not move from his place at the front of the hall, nor did his expression shift. Only when the last corpse hit the ground did he finally exhale a quiet sigh.

  "His Imperial Majesty does not wish for unnecessary deaths." His voice carried through the chamber, composed, unshaken. "But nor will disobedience be tolerated. The decree has been given. You may accept it or share their fate."

  He let the words settle, allowing them to sink into the minds of all who remained. No one else spoke. No one else dared.

  The message had been made clear.

  Order had been restored.

  With that, the weight of command shifted. The guards began moving, issuing orders, and dividing the prisoners into groups. Shackles were adjusted, ropes tightened for those deemed untrustworthy, while others—those who had accepted their circumstances without resistance—were left unbound but closely watched.

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  The chamber stirred with motion, and the former captives were herded towards the massive doors that led outside. The footsteps echoed along the final ascent.

  Nox walked among them, silent as ever.

  The twilight air greeted them like a whisper from a world long forgotten. As the heavy doors groaned shut behind them, sealing away the tomb’s depths, a cool breeze rolled through the clearing, stirring the dust and carrying with it the crisp scent of pine and damp earth. The transition was stark—the stale, suffocating air of the abyss was replaced by something sharp and alive.

  They had emerged into a broad clearing at the forest’s edge, where towering pines stood like watchful sentinels, their dark silhouettes stretching skyward. Their boughs swayed gently, whispering with each passing gust. The faint echoes of distant howls wove through the trees, their source unseen but ever present.

  But it was not the forest that held their immediate attention.

  Before them, a mass of carriages lay waiting. Dozens of them—heavy, reinforced constructs built for endurance rather than comfort. Their dark wooden frames bore the marks of time and travel, their iron-rimmed wheels half-sunken into the dirt from long hours of waiting. Some were simple, covered wagons meant for transporting prisoners in bulk, while others, sturdier and enclosed, were reserved for those of greater importance—or greater danger.

  Redthorns stood harnessed at the fronts of these carriages—massive beasts with thick, reddish-brown fur and curved tusks jutting from their lower jaws. Their breath misted in the cooling air, the occasional snort or restless scrape of hooves breaking the otherwise still moment.

  Among the gathered, one carriage stood apart. Unlike the others, it was sleek, its wooden panels polished to a near-unnatural sheen, reinforced with dark metal engravings that shimmered faintly in the dying light. The creatures harnessed to it were unlike the others—Redthorns, yes, but their fur was a pale, spectral white, their eyes cold and almost luminous.

  It did not join the rest of the caravan.

  The elves—few in number but unmistakable in bearing—were ushered towards it. They moved without chains, their steps measured and composed. A silent understanding passed between them as they climbed aboard, their destination different from that of the others. Within moments, the carriage turned, veering away from the mass of prisoners, heading in the opposite direction.

  Nox watched it go, though his expression remained unreadable.

  A rough shove at his back pulled his attention away. A knight gestured forward, impatient. "Move."

  He was directed toward one of the larger wagons, where a small group was already being gathered. Four humans—each hardened in their way, their faces marked by either scars or shadows of a past they had yet to leave behind. And standing among them, arms crossed and gaze impassive, was the orc from earlier.

  The knights wasted no time securing them in place. Shackles, though loosened, remained fastened. The doors of the wagon creaked open, yawning like a beast waiting to swallow them whole.

  The road to the capital awaited.