by Morgan Rice
“I, like many here, are with you, friend,” a man shouted. “But do you think we have a real chance at winning this war?”
“The war will not be won today,” Rexus continued. “Not tomorrow, even. But eventually, we will win. A people who demands freedom will in the end claim it.”
Heads nodded and a few lifted weapons into the air.
“We are few. They are many,” another man said.
“We, the oppressed, outnumber the oppressors a hundred to one, and as soon as we have enough supporters, we will triumph!” Rexus said.
“They will never permit us to usurp the throne,” a woman said.
“Permit?” Rexus said. “You do not need permission from any king, queen, or royal to free yourselves from the bonds of oppression. Today, and every day from now on, give yourselves permission and fight to take back your liberty!”
One by one, the rebels raised weapons into the air, soon the sound of their cheers overpowering the waterfall.
The time, Rexus knew, had come.
*
As he rode toward Delos, followed by his men, the sound of the horses galloping in his ears, Rexus’s thoughts turned toward Ceres. She had looked so thin and vulnerable when he saw her last, and his heart had nearly burst with emotion. Like every time before, he had been such a fool—had only kissed her briefly when he wanted to take her into his arms and keep her there forever.
From atop his horse, he saw the palace in the distance, and it haunted him to think of her alone amidst a sea of corruption, amidst the very wolves they fought against, her life endangered at every turn. He wanted to ride like the wind and save Ceres from such a place.
Ever since he could remember, he had wanted to marry Ceres; indeed, a large part of his motivation to join the rebellion was so that their future children could live in freedom. Yet, every time he saw her, his tongue twisted into a thousand knots, and he had never been able to say those words to her. He was a fool.
Riding to an uncertain fate, he suddenly realized that it wasn’t true what he had said to the rebels just minutes ago. His deepest fear wasn’t living the rest of his life on his knees. His deepest fear was that Ceres would have to do that, and that they might never have the chance to be together.
*
Rexus arrived at the North Square with his troops, heavy fog a dense curtain around him, the city of Delos breathing like a ghost town. The trip had been more gruesome than he could ever have imagined—bodies lying facedown, contorted in unnatural position, mothers holding their dead children, sobbing, houses pillaged and plundered, blood flowing down the cobblestone streets.
And this, he knew, was just the beginning.
The scout he had sent out reported that there were over a thousand Empire soldiers in the piazza—though it was difficult to see clearly in such weather. At the moment, the soldiers were preparing to eat, so it would be the perfect time to attack.
Rexus glanced back at noble faces and dear friends. Not a one had proper armor like the Empire soldiers had, although most had been trained sufficiently in battle. There was no way this small army of roughly two hundred could triumph over a thousand Empire soldiers. Had he led these brave men and women into a suicide mission? he wondered.
If the doves had arrived to their destinations, a few more men and women would be on their way, he knew, perhaps adding another hundred to the militia, but that was still not nearly enough to defeat a thousand.
“But hundreds upon hundreds of young men—firstborns—are locked up in wagons in the center of the piazza,” the scout told Rexus.
“Hundreds, you say?” Rexus asked, his heart growing hopeful.
The scout nodded.
Rexus named thirty men, himself included, whose main goal would be to break open the locks of the wagons and invite the firstborns to fight with them, increasing the rebellion’s numbers. The other men and women would fight off the Empire soldiers, distracting them from noticing their new recruits were being stolen.
By the time Rexus had solidified the plan, more than a hundred additional revolutionaries had arrived, ready to fight with them.
Rexus ordered Nesos, the scout, and half the militia to attack from the north, and then he waited with nervous patience until the scout returned, saying the rebels had arrived safely at the other side of North Square.
This was a significant moment, he thought. For centuries, the oppression had been a curse over the land, a chain around hundreds of thousands of people’s necks.
Trembling, yet resolute, Rexus raised his sword.
“For freedom!” he yelled as he led the revolutionaries into battle.
As they rode toward the square, horse hooves pounding against the rocks below, every rebel held breaths of dread, but also breaths of hope, Rexus could feel.
I must be strong for them, he thought, despite the weakness that pollutes my heart.
And so he willed his horse forward even though he feared death would take him if he didn’t stop.
Rexus rode his horse as far as he could onto the battlefield, toward the wagons filled with firstborns, until the congestion of fighters prevented him from riding any further. He let out a great battle cry as he threw himself into the fray.
Rexus raised his sword and stabbed one soldier through the heart, sliced another’s throat, and drove his sword through a third’s abdomen, the cries of wounded men all around him.
An Empire soldier pulled Rexus from his horse and came at him with his sword, but Rexus ducked and then kicked the soldier in the knee, a sickening crack of bone.
The next Empire soldier—a monster of a man—hit Rexus’s sword out of his hand. Weaponless, Rexus flung himself at the soldier, digging thumbs into the man’s eyes.
The giant shrieked and socked Rexus in the stomach so he fell to the ground. Another soldier came at Rexus, and yet another.
Soon he was surrounded, three against one.
He saw his sword only a few feet away and scurried on hands and knees for it, but a soldier stood in his way. Rexus snatched the dagger from his boot and flung it into the soldier’s neck before grabbing his sword and hopping to his feet.
The giant, now with a spear in his hands, sprang toward Rexus. Rexus hopped back and hacked the spear to the ground and then stepped on it, breaking it. With all his force, he kicked the brute in the abdomen. Nothing happened. Instead, Rexus stabbed his opponent in the foot, but he was punished with a fist to the side of his head, and he went crashing to the ground, his ear throbbing.
He staggered to his feet, his surroundings spinning, and suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his arm, warm blood spilling out from the fresh wound. He cried out.
After a moment he was able to see clearly, and he plunged his sword into the giant’s lower abdomen. The Empire soldier fell to his knees and Rexus stepped aside as the soldier fell forward onto his face.
Shouts caught his attention, and he looked up to see the wagons crammed with the firstborn men a mere twenty feet away. He ran over to them, slashing more Empire soldiers on the way, and slashed the lock off the first door.
“Fight with us!” he yelled as the young men streamed out. “Win your freedom!”
Rexus ran to the next wagon, and the next, smashing the locks open, releasing as many firstborns as were imprisoned, asking them to fight. Most picked up swords of fallen soldiers and joined in the battle.
As the fog lightened, Rexus was saddened to see several of his men lay fallen on the cobblestones, his allies in eternity, his friends no more. But to his great joy, many more of the Empire soldiers lay lifeless, too.
“Retreat!” Rexus cried, seeing that he had accomplished his mission.
A horn blared through the fog, echoing in the streets, and his people fled from the battle, scattering into side alleyways, vanishing down main roads, raising hands into the air, their victory cries echoing through the streets.
He looked into the faces of the living—now friends for life—and he could see a fire kindled within each of their eyes
. It was the spirit of the revolution. And soon that flicker would turn into a fiery inferno that would destroy the entire Empire.
Everything was about to change.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ceres sat on the cold stone dungeon floor and watched the small boy beside her, squirming in pain, and wondered if he would live. He lay there, belly down, his pale skin white in the dimness, eyes halfway open, still recovering from a flogging in the market. He was awaiting his sentence, just like everyone else in this dungeon.
Just like her.
She looked around to see the cell filled with men, women, and children, some chained to the wall, others free to roam around. It was dark in here, and the smell of urine was even more prominent here than in the slaver cart, with no breeze to carry away the stench. The stone walls were slick with grime and dried blood, the ceiling looming over them like the weight of the world, barely high enough for her to stand fully erect in, and the floor was covered in smeared feces and mouse-droppings.
Worriedly, Ceres glanced down at the boy again. He hadn’t moved from his position since she had been thrown in here yesterday, but his chest was still rising and sinking with silent breaths.
With the sun beaming in through the small barred window, she saw that the wounds on his back were healing with the fabric of his tunic stuck to it. Ceres wanted to do something—anything—to relieve his pain, but she had already asked to help him several times and there had been no response, not even a flicker in his pale blue eyes.
Ceres stood and tucked herself into the corner, eyes swollen from crying, mouth and throat parched from thirst. She shouldn’t have hit a royal across the face, she knew that, but when she had done it, she had only reacted.
Would Thanos come for her? she wondered. Or were his promises just as rotten as all the other royals’?
The pregnant woman sitting opposite her rubbed her swollen belly, moaning softly, and Ceres wondered if she had gone into labor. Perhaps the woman would have to give birth in this wretched hole. She looked down at the little boy again and her heart ached when she considered it wasn’t many years since Sartes was that size, and remembered how she used to sing lullabies to him until he fell asleep.
She tensed up when she noticed the silhouettes of two prisoners approaching before her.
“Who is that boy to you?” a gruff voice asked.
Ceres looked up. One of the men had a dirty, bearded face with angry blue eyes, the other was a bald man, muscular as a combatlord, the skin below his eyes covered in swirling black tattoos. The robust one smashed his knuckles together and they cracked, and the chain around his ankle clattered as he moved.
“No one,” she said, looking away.
The bearded man leaned hands against the wall behind her on either side, confining her, his raunchy breath wafting into her face.
“You’re lying,” he said. “I saw the way you looked at him.”
“I’m not lying,” Ceres said. “But if I were, it wouldn’t make one bit of difference to you or anyone else in here. We’d still be stuck in this prison, awaiting our punishments.”
“When we ask you a question, we expect an honest answer,” the tattooed man said, stepping forward, his chain rattling again. “Or are you too good for us?”
Ceres knew that playing nice or trying to avoid the bullies wasn’t going to make them leave her alone.
As quickly as she could, she ducked, and darted past the thugs so she could go to the other side of the room where their chains wouldn’t reach. But she didn’t get far.
The tattooed man lifted his leg and the chain with it, catching Ceres’s legs, causing her to trip and fall on her face. The bearded man stepped on the boy’s back, and the little one shrieked in pain.
Ceres tried to rise to her feet, but the tattooed man wound his chain around her neck and pulled.
“Let the boy…go,” she croaked, barely able to speak.
The boy’s cries pierced straight to her heart, and she tugged on the chain, trying to free herself.
The tattooed man tugged even harder, until she couldn’t breathe.
“You do care, don’t you? Now, because you lied, the boy will bleed to death,” the bearded man hissed.
He gave the boy a swift kick in the back, the child’s cry filling the crammed cell, the other prisoners turning their heads away, some weeping quietly.
Ceres felt her body come alive, a surge of power overcoming her like a storm. Without even knowing what she was doing, she found herself strengthening her grip around the chain and snapping it in two.
The bearded man stared back at her, stunned, as if he had seen a ghost rise from the dead.
Free from the chain, Ceres stood, took hold of the chain, and whipped the bearded man, again and again, until he cowered in the corner, begging for mercy.
With her insides alight, she spun around and faced the tattooed man, the force within still feeding her body the strength she needed to stop the aggressors.
“If you touch him, or me, or any of the people in here one more time, I will kill you with my bare hands, you hear?” she said, pointing at him.
But this one growled and threw himself at her. She raised her palms, feeling the heat burning within, and without her touching him he went flying into the wall across the room with a thud and collapsed onto the ground, unconscious.
A tense silence fell, as Ceres felt all the eyes in the room on her.
“What force is that?” the pregnant woman asked.
Ceres glanced over at her, then looked at the others; everyone in the cell was dumbfounded.
The little boy sat up and winced, and Ceres kneeled by his side.
“You need rest,” she said.
Now that the fabric had torn from the boy’s back, she could also see puss between the blood. If his wounds weren’t cleaned, he would die of the infection, she knew.
“How did you do that?” the boy asked.
Everyone’s eyes were still on Ceres, wanting to know the answer to that question.
It was an answer she wanted to know herself.
“I…don’t know,” she said. “It just…overcame me when I saw what he was doing to you.”
The boy paused and as he lay back down, with weary eyes, he said, “Thank you.”
“Ceres,” came a sudden whisper in the darkness. “Ceres!”
Ceres turned and looked through the bars of the cell and saw the form of a person wearing a hooded cape, the torches in the hallway illuminating the black material. Was it a servant boy sent by Thanos? she wondered.
Careful not to step on fingers and toes, Ceres made her way over to the stranger. He removed the hood, and to her astonishment and joy, she saw that it was Sartes.
“How did you find me? What are you doing here?” she asked, her hands gripping the bars, her chest brimming with joy—and trepidation.
“The blacksmith told me you were here, and I had to see you,” he whispered, tears in his eyes. “I’ve been so worried for you.”
She reached a hand through the bars and pressed a palm to his cheek.
“Sweet Sartes, I am doing well.”
“This is not well,” he said, his face etched with graveness.
“It is well enough. At least they haven’t said anything about…”
She stopped herself from speaking the unspeakable, not wanting to worry Sartes.
“If they kill you, Ceres, I will…I will…”
“Shush, now. They will do no such thing.” She lowered her voice several notches before whispering, “How is the rebellion?”
“There was a battle in northern Delos yesterday, a huge one. We won.”
She smiled.
“So it has begun,” she said.
“Nesos is fighting as we speak. He was injured yesterday, but not enough to keep him in bed.”
Ceres smiled a little.
“Always the tough one. And Rexus?” she asked.
“He is well, too. He misses you.”
Hearing Sartes say that ne
arly brought Ceres to tears. Oh, how she missed Rexus, too.
Sartes leaned closer, his cape covering his arm, and then she peered down when she felt a sharp, cold object against her hand—a dagger. Without a word, only the silent understanding between them, she took the dagger and stuffed it down the front of her pants and then covered it with her shirt.
“I have to go before someone sees me,” Sartes said.
She nodded, and reached tender arms through the bars.
“I love you, Sartes. Remember that.”
“I love you, too. Be well.”
Just as he vanished down the hallway, passing him, she saw the warden approach. She huddled back in the corner next to the boy, her hand stroking his hair, and the warden unlocked the door and stepped into the prison.
“Listen up, criminals. Here are the names of those who will be executed on the day after the morrow at sunrise: Apollo.”
The boy let out a gasp, and Ceres felt him start to tremble beneath her hands.
“…Trinity…” the warden continued.
The pregnant woman cringed and swooped her arms around her swollen belly.
“…Ceres…”
Ceres felt a sudden sense of panic overtake her.
“…and Ichabod.”
A man chained to the far end of the cell buried his face in his hands and sobbed quietly.
The warden turned on his feet and exited the cell, locking it behind him, nothing but the sound of his heavy footsteps marching away.
And with those few words, her death loomed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thanos stormed into the throne room, clutching the scroll signed by the king—the abominable document which contained Ceres’s execution orders. His heart was thundering against his ribs as his feet pounded the white marble floor beneath them, rage churning through him from head to toe.
Thanos had always thought this room was spacious beyond reason, the arched ceilings ridiculously high, the distance from the massive bronze door to the two thrones at the end nothing but wasted space. Or tainted space. The throne room was the place where all rules were forged, and to Thanos, this was where all the inequality originated.
