The Breach and the Child's Gambit

The atmosphere was heavy, all chests constricted by that suffocating pressure of tension, which loitered the air over the military camp on top of the hill. The sky was a bruised weave of greys and blacks, churning clouds like the firmament was in a frenzy. Mud, the type that got into his boots and made a movement against it feel like a battle on an unyielding soil bed, covered the ground Chris walked on beneath his feet. The aroma of damp soil, and the stinging smell of the coming storm, invaded his senses, merging with the almost diaphanous smell of sweat and fear that seemed to come from the men surrounding him. His heart beat in his chest with an insistent tattoo, a rhythm that warped into the noise of his ears, absorbing the faint boom of the thunder.

Standing a small distance back Jabari, his large, muscular physique, against the rough state of the weather. His dark, weathered skin glistened with a sheen of moisture, his sharp, angular features set in an expression of calm determination. His very dark and alinging eyes seemed to crackle the chaos, unmoved by the weight of the situation. When Jabari uttered any word it was firm, a deep vibrate that rang out the pressure like a knife.

“Chris” Jabari said, his voice steady but firm, "when I say jump, you need to leap up into that sky, where the portals are situated. Not a moment sooner, not a moment later. Do you understand?” Jabari asked why, pointing up to the sky.

Chris nodded, his throat dry as he swallowed hard. His appearance was a flip of Jabari's meditated serenity. His caramel-coloured hair, short and wavy, clung in damp plastered to his brow. His blue eyes, which normally blazed with the drive for action, now danced uncertainly. He wore a simple, dirt-streaked tunic and trousers, the fabric clinging to his lean frame as the rain started falling in a fine mist. His hands, rough with, callouses, and with a slight quiver, closed into fists by his sides.

“Yes, Jabari," Chris said, his voice barely audible, yet full of determination despite the terror gripping him.

Staring through glass with eyes that could simplify its composition, Jabari's gaze held first glance for a beat and then assessed himself. Then, with a sharp inhale, he barked, “GO!”

Chris didn’t hesitate. He lowered his body, the fibres of his legs springy like coils, and in a sudden flush of power that roared out from the deepest part of his being, shot through the air. The ground fell away beneath him, the mud splattering as his feet left the earth. The wind whipped past his eardrums, a roaring sound that silences all other sounds. His stomach constricted as he climbed, and the view below became a mass of greens and browns.

Above him, the sky was a sea of tumultuous portals, each a sharp hole in the reality behind them. They danced, casting peculiar, unbelievable, luminosity casting eerie, floating shapes to fall on the ground. The swords, countless in number, hung suspended in the air, their blades glinting like shards of ice. Suddenly everything became frozen Chris’s breaths came in short, ragged gasps as he stared intensely at the vast portals, his arms moved with deliberate precision behind his back. He got them unsupervised, although muscles in his shoulders and chest ached as he focused all his power into his hands. Then, with a swift, fluid motion, he swung his arms forward, the air breaking with the sound as if the window's glass was shattering. He swung his arms forward, the force of his movement rippling through the air.

The impact was immediate. The aura that surrounded him dissipated, like a wave of energy in outward travel. Even the air seemed to be alive, as it buzzed with a sort of electricity that sent shivers up the back of his neck. Chris's hands closed another stroke in a wide curved sweeping stroke, enchaining the power it had generated. The force travelling In cohesion the air screaming in pain the power pressed onto the portals, a relentless wave of force that crashed against the blades, echoing a screeching metallic sound, up in the sky The swords were unwavering not budging but neither was the generated force from Chris, sparks flew everywhere as if there was a thunderstorm commencing, however, the force was too much for the swords to handle and flung them towards the immense, gateway of Balisarda Sumernor Citadel.

Chris's heart beat faster as he saw the countless swords travelling through the air, a perfect arc. His chest laboured from exertion, his arms shook from fatigue. He could feel the weight of what he had done, the sheer magnitude of the power he had unleashed. For a moment at least, he even entertained a small glimmer of hope, the illusion of maybe but just maybe, this much would be more than enough.

However, on his way down looking into the ground below, at the foot of the castle wall, his gaze halted on some activity. His breath hitched, his stomach twisting into a knot. At this distance, a child in ragged clothes, practically a dot, ran on the edge of the wall and did not even register the deadly blades of rain from above. Chris’s chest tightened and a horrible sense of dread crept up the sides of his body. His mind raced, a torrent of thoughts and emotions crashing over him.

“No," he murmured, the faint almost inaudible word lost in the wind's scream. “No, no, no!”

Many military personnel consider Jabari in high regard, his rank of Master 1 furthering this belief, to them, he was a strongly willed person, Jabari never wavered emotions soldiers always saw him staying calm no matter what the situation, concepts of frustration and stress seemed to not apply to him.

At the military camp on the hill, the intensity had gone past doing fatal things. Deon Marsh, an athletic man with a shock of unruly black hair and a face etched with worry, paced back and forth, his boots squashing in the mud. His olive-green uniform damp with sweat and rain clung to his gaunt figure. His dark eyes looked toward Jabari, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Jabari,” Deon said, his voice stiff, clearly with panic, “there a child! Running right in front of Balisarda Sumernor castle gateway. If those swords hit… if we don’t do something…” His words trailed off, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to contain his fear.

Jabari turned his face to look at Deon, his expression unreadable. His calm behaviour was a stark contrast to Deon’s anxiety. “Deon,” he said, his voice low and steady, “look at me.”

Deon’s gaze snapped instantaneously at Jabari’s, his eyes wide and agitated. “Jabari’s what are we supposed to do? We can’t just let a child die, but if we don’t breach that wall, we lose everything!”

Jabari stepped closer, his presence commanding. “Listen here Deon, you have to focus right now. You are not held captive by anyone, there isn’t a single chain wrapped around your body preventing you from escaping. Do you understand me, Deon?”

Deon blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “What? Jabari, this isn’t the time for riddles!”

“Look at me in my eyes,” Jabari repeated, his tone firm but not unkind. “Tell me what you see that is going to happen which I do not.”

Deon hesitated, his breathing ragged. “I… I see you. I see the wall. I see the swords. I see a child who’s about to die if we don’t do something!”

Jabari’s gaze never wavered. “And what do you feel?”

Deon’s hands trembled as they ran through his black hair. “I feel… I feel like I’m going to be sick. I feel clueless, worthless as if I’m failing. I feel my mind telling me to do something, but I don't know what to do!”

Jabari placed his hand firmly on Deon’s shoulder, the weight of it grounding him entirely. “You feel the weight of responsibility. That’s good. It means you care. But right now, you need to think. Not feel. Think.”

Deon swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “I can't think it's just too overwhelming.”

“If you join the military then you can think,” Jabari said, his voice unwavering. “Tell me, Deon. Should you sacrifice yourself to save that child?”

Deon’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “I don’t know. If I do, the wall might not be breached. If I don’t…”

Jabari’s grip tightened slightly. “The answer isn’t in what I tell you. It’s what you decide. But know this: no one under my command dies needlessly. Not today. especially a master.”

Deon’s eyes filled with tears, his resolve crumbling. “I just… I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Before Jabari could respond, a deafening crash echoed across the battlefield, the sound reverberating through the ground and shaking the very air. Every head turned toward the source of the noise, their eyes widening in shock and disbelief.

The wall of Balisarda Sumernor Castle had been breached.

But as the dust began to settle, the question lingered, heavy and unspoken: What had become of the child?

The brittle, dry grass caused Jabari's boots to pinch against the bare ground, his breath shallow and uneven as they stepped away from Deon Marsh. Burning wood and chunky stone lingered in the air, creating a bitter smell that was so intense it had just stirred into the chaos. He felt a pounding in his chest, each sound reverberating in the ears like pulsation, as he looked towards the source of the loud roar that had caused damage to the earth beneath him. The earth still shuddered with faintness, as if the land was shaking from the violence that had just occurred.'

With each step, he steadied up the hill and his muscles tightened. The grass below was soaked in dew, and his nostrils were filled with the slight, earthy scent of damp ground. The hill ascended, affording an overview of the vast plain below.' The plain before him was green, tumbling, the grass swaying softly in the frigid breeze. Eventually, the plain flattened, leading to an impressive castle's silhouette at Balisarda Sumernor, its once majestic walls now in disarray. The towering structure stood tall, its sharp edges veiled by the pale, cloudy sky. Bloody blood and the sharp, acrid taste of shattering rock filled the air.

As he observed the scene in front of him, Jabari's eyes shone with excitement. The castle's colossal wall, a symbol of unyielding might that had persisted for centuries, was now ruined. As the air dried up, dust and debris covered everything, but not the extent of what had happened. The walls were destroyed, resulting in a narrow, jagged maw of broken stone and twisted metal. There was the source of the destruction, where numerous swords were embedded in the stone, their blades glinting like ice in dim light. They seemed to be alive, feeding on the chaos they had created with each sword's faint, malevolent pulse.

Jabari's throat strained, his voice caught, as he turned to face the military forces assembled below. His voice, when it came, was raw and unvoiced, carrying a feeling of urgency and fear. "EVERYONE!". "The words were loud and unrelenting, tearing through the stunned silence that had enveloped the battlefield. BALISARDA SUMERNOR CASTLE WALLS HAVE BEEN BREACHED!".

The soldiers below were frozen, their faces pale and drawn, with a wide stare. The air became thicker, the tension more and more intense, as Jabari's announcement became a reality. The young soldier, whose face was covered in dirt and sweat, fell backward while his hands trembled as they held his weapon. He whispered, "The child..." with a barely audible voice, yet it carried shivers of hope that consumed those around him.

Despite the damage to his armour, another soldier shook his head slowly and had no visible eyes, whispering "We were too late," while his voice filled with regret and hopelessness. His words echoed in the air like a warning to end their lives, with each note serving as reassurance of their defeat.

A soldier, the third, with a grimace on his face, slammed his fist into the ground and exclaimed, "This child died." His voice was filled with anger and sadness, as if from above. Colder air accompanied the scent of blood and ash carried by the wind.

"Why didn't anyone try to save the child?" a soldier screamed, his voice breaking.

He fought with his hands between his palms and fingers, feeling deeply affected by the pain. His emotions were too much to handle. A question hanging in the air, unanswered and a bitter reminder of their impossibility.

A voice trembled with fear as they asked, "Is the child deceased?".

There was no response to the inquiry, and the uncertainty gripped tightly at their decision.

Jolvuthiz stood aside, his tall, lean frame a silhouette against the smoky haze. His pale, nearly translucent skin appeared to glow faintly in the dim mild, and his sharp, angular features were twisted right into a mocking smile. His eyes, cold, piercing crimson, sparkled with amusement as Jolvuthiz saw the destruction. His long, silver hair flowed like liquid metallic, catching the faint mild and shimmering with an otherworldly glow.

Jolvuthiz’s laughter cut through the tension, a sound that was both melodic and chilling. “That was… interesting to see,” he said, his voice smooth. Tilting his head, his gaze focused on the ruined wall. “So that child grabbed one of the swords that was about to destroy the wall, and moved so fast it seemed like he flew out of this world.” His words were laced with amusement, his tone mocking, as if everything that happened was nothing more than a game to him.

INSIDE THE THRONE ROOM

The throne room was a cavern of opulence, its grandeur etched into every inch of stone and gem. The golden-plated doors, towering and imposing, gleamed faintly in the dim light that filtered through the enormous window on the far side of the room. The air carried a faint metallic tang, mingling with the scent of polished wood and the faintest hint of incense—sandalwood, perhaps, or myrrh—that lingered from some long-extinguished brazier. The red carpet, a river of crimson, stretched from the entrance to the foot of the throne, its fibers worn soft by countless footsteps.

Balisarda Sumernor stood by the window, his broad frame silhouetted against the pale light of the overcast sky. His dark green coat, lined with fur at the collar, hung heavily on his shoulders, the bronze scales of his armor catching the faint glow of the room. His long, blond hair, brushed back and gleaming like spun gold, framed a face that was as sharp as the edge of a blade. His blue eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the castle grounds below, though his mind was far away, lost in the storm of his thoughts.

The castle entrance lay in ruins, a jagged scar on the otherwise pristine grounds. The military had broken through, their siege engines leaving splintered wood and shattered stone in their wake. But it wasn’t the destruction that gnawed at him—it was the boy. That *boy*. He had moved like a shadow, swift and untouchable, as if the very air had conspired to carry him away. Balisarda’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck corded like steel cables.

“So the military broke my castle entrance,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, each word dripping with disdain. “But that kid… he must have been blessed with an ability to fly away at that speed.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, as though the room itself recoiled from his anger. He turned abruptly, the fur lining of his coat brushing against his neck, and his boots—polished to a mirror shine—clicked sharply against the marble floor. The sound echoed, bouncing off the walls adorned with gemstones that glittered like frozen fire. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds—each one a silent witness to his fury.

“Hey!” he barked, his voice slicing through the stillness like a whip. The servant, a young woman named Rosemarie, flinched but quickly composed herself, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She stood near the throne, its golden frame towering over her, the purple cushion atop it looking almost regal in its simplicity.

“Yes, Master Balisarda Sumernor?” she replied, her voice trembling ever so slightly. She bowed deeply, her dark hair falling forward to obscure her face.

“Get the brand-new servant who joined two days ago,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. “What was her name again?” He paused, tapping a finger against the ornate buckle of his belt, the metal cool against his skin. “Ah, yes. Gwen. Fetch her for me.”

Rosemarie nodded, her movements quick and efficient, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “Yes, Master Balisarda Sumernor. I shall bring her to you at once.”

She turned and hurried toward the golden doors, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Balisarda watched her go, his gaze lingering on the doors as they swung shut with a soft *thud*. The room fell silent again, save for the faint rustle of his coat as he strode back to the window.

The view outside was a stark contrast to the warmth of the throne room. The sky was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of rain, and the wind carried the faint scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The castle grounds stretched out before him, a patchwork of manicured lawns and crumbling stone. He could almost hear the distant clang of swords and the shouts of soldiers, though the grounds were now eerily quiet.

He leaned against the windowsill, the cold stone biting into his palms. His mind raced, thoughts colliding like waves in a storm. *That boy… who was he? And why did he escape so easily?* The questions burned in his chest, a fire that refused to be extinguished.

“Let me see what principle she will pick for me after I’m done with her,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The words were more for himself than anyone else, a quiet promise that coiled in the air like smoke.

The throne room seemed to hold its breath, the gemstones glinting like watchful eyes. The table beside the throne held a small box, its surface smooth and unadorned. Balisarda’s gaze flicked toward it, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Whatever game was being played, he would be the one to dictate the rules.