The Forcer Domain stands as a testament to the refined art of combat, a discipline once synonymous with nobility and those born to power. Prior to the Great War, mastery of the Forcer was the exclusive province of high-born warriors, whose elegant sword forms and disciplined stances were as much symbols of status as they were instruments of warfare. The elegant duels and precise maneuvers exhibited by these noble practitioners became legends, their every parry and thrust echoing ancestral virtues of honor and valor.
In the modern era, however, the boundaries of this once-exclusive art have expanded. While noble families still uphold their traditions, the path of the Forcer has been embraced by a growing number of commoners, drawn by the allure of discipline, technique, and the promise of transforming raw power into unparalleled mastery.
At its core, the Forcer Domain is defined by its reliance on the sword. Practitioners learn to channel spira—the fundamental essence of artes—through their every movement, enabling them to shift stances in the blink of an eye. Their ability to rapidly adapt to the flow of battle makes them formidable duelists, parrying an attack and launching a swift counteroffensive in one motion.
The discipline demands not only physical prowess but also a keen mind and an unwavering focus. Every form, every stance, is a meticulously honed expression of technique and intent. In the heat of combat, the Forcer is as much a tactician as a swordsman—calculating, decisive, and capable of turning the tide of battle with a single, masterful movement.
Thus, the Forcer Domain remains a pillar of martial excellence—a legacy of noble tradition, now enriched by the diverse ranks of those who have embraced it, and a living art that continues to shape the destinies of its practitioners, both on the field of honor and in the arena of life.
Siegfried's longsword flashed from its sheath, just as an arrow, shot by the hooded figure, hissed through the air toward him. With a practiced flick, he knocked it aside, steel kissing wood with a plink. Before he could recover, the hooded woman melted into the maze of hedges, vanishing like a whisper into the labyrinth's twisting arteries.
A curse hissed through Siegfried's teeth. He bolted after her, armor rattling with each determined step. Out in the open, he would've run her down with ease —but the damned maze, tight and overgrown, its paths snaking in unpredictable directions, turned the chase into a slog. No room for boat-stepping here. His eyes darted through the shifting green, catching flickers of movement that vanished just as fast. The labyrinth swallowed her whole. When he finally stumbled into an open space, she was gone—no footprints, no broken branches, not even a breath left behind.
Frustration churned in his gut, hot and bitter. He needed backup.
Turning, he headed toward Terry's patrol route, intent on intercepting him. He hadn't made it far when a voice cut through the air.
"Siegfried, is that you? Over here!"
He sprinted around the bend and found Terry already in control. A cloaked man lay sprawled on the narrow path, pinned to the ground. Terry's muscles were taut as the enchantment flowed through his limbs, keeping the man firmly restrained.
Terry glanced up, a lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Got him," he said, as if he'd just bagged a rabbit instead of a man. Though, with his strength, the battle might have been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Siegfried exhaled, rolling out the tension coiled in his shoulders. His chase through the maze had ended in frustration, but this intruder? This was confirmation that the night's troubles were far from over. Not by a long shot.
His gaze darkened as he studied the man trapped beneath Terry's grip. "This is not the only one," he stated. "I encountered another."
Terry quirked a brow, skeptical. "Did you catch them?"
Siegfried's jaw tightened. "No. They managed to slip away."
A low, derisive chuckle came from the captive, his body shifting just enough to show he was enjoying himself. "What other one?" he sneered. "Only I was sent up here."
Ice slid down Siegfried's spine. Sent up here. The words weren't just cocky bravado—they carried intent. This wasn't a random break-in. It was coordinated. And if there were orders, then he wasn't the only piece moving in the shadows.
He gestured for Terry to haul the man upright. "Let us have a word," he started, his tone calm but edged with something colder. Siegfried's mind whirled, piecing together the implications.
His gaze locked onto the man, piercing and unwavering. "How many of you are there?" His voice sliced through the air, sharp as steel
The intruder spat onto the stone floor. "I'm not tellin' ya a damn thing." he growled. "You play the part of a Warden, but I see right through ya. You're just another noble, same as the rest."
Siegfried's blood roiled, but he shoved the anger aside. Instead, he flicked a glance at Terry, giving a terse nod.
Terry closed in, his hold on the man tightening painfully, his voice low and hard, matching Siegfried's intensity. "How many of you?"
The silence was suffocating, each heartbeat echoing as the air thickened with unspoken threat.
Then, the man laughed. Low and mocking. "Why let a bastard like him order ya around?" His voice dripped with venom. "The nobility's a disease. Corrupts everythin' it touches."
Terry's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture did—subtle, but unmistakable. "Enough," he said, "How many, and what were you planning?"
The man's eyes darted nervously, looking for an escape that wasn't there. "I don't see why you'd care," he muttered. "We're just common folk, doin' what needs to be done. One day, you'll understand."
Terry's jaw flexed. "I understand enough to know you're not here for some righteous cause. You're here to make a mess. So start talking before I lose my patience."
The man sneered. "You want the truth? I've already given it to ya. The nobility is a—"
His words shattered into a strangled cry as Siegfried drove his heel into the man's shin. The sickening crack of bone snapping echoed down the corridor, and the man's legs buckled beneath him, collapsing to the floor in a heap.
"He's stalling," Siegfried grumbled.
"What are you doing?" Terry exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"He does not intend to speak," Siegfried replied coolly. "Our most prudent course of action would be to offer... certain encouragement."
"We can't torture him!" Terry protested, stepping forward, hands outstretched, as though to shield the man.
"Why not?" Siegfried shot back. "Who, pray tell, would stand in our way? We are the sole Wardens present. The guards will not dare interfere in matters concerning the Wardens, and as for the nobles…" He sneered, a hint of disdain in his voice. "You heard him. To them, we are all monsters. If any noble happened upon this, they would merely observe, not a single one would lift a finger to intervene."
Terry clenched his fists, muscles taut with frustration, his gaze flinching when it met Siegfried's intensity. "That doesn't mean we stoop to their level." he said, his resolve wavering.
Siegfried stared him down. "We have no time for his games. The longer he delays, the greater the chance his comrades will slip from our grasp." He turned back to the man, groaning on the ground, clutching his shattered leg. "But if you'd rather drag this out, be my guest."
Terry's breath escaped in a heavy exhale, frustration evident, but he didn't speak further.
Siegfried crouched, grabbing the man by his collar and yanking him upright. "How many?"
The man winced, shifting to avoid putting any weight on his broken leg. His breath came in ragged gasps, as fresh waves of pain spread. "Do whatever ya want," he spat. "I've got nothin' to say."
Terry muttered a curse, running a hand through his hair, torn between anger and helplessness.
"Do you enjoy walking?" Siegfried asked flatly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man's remaining leg.
"I…" The man swallowed hard, sweat forming on his brow. As Siegfried released his grip allowing the man to collapse, he raised his boot, preparing to bring it down on the other leg.
The man's breath hitched. "Wait, wait! I-I'll tell ya." His voice cracked, desperation creeping in. "I don't know the exact numbers, but there are at least twelve of us."
"Twelve?" Terry repeated, the word laced with disbelief.
"Where and why?" Siegfried pressed. Watching the man squirm as he put pressure on his injured leg.
"It doesn't matter now," the man shook his head, defiance flaring in his eyes through the pain. "You can't stop what's about to happen."
Siegfried's expression hardened. "Terry, go find the others," he ordered, his tone final.
Terry gave a curt nod and sprinted off, leaving Siegfried alone with the prisoner.
Siegfried crouched down again, leaning in close to the man, his voice low and dangerous. "What is your objective in this matter?"
"Objective?" The man's lips twisted into a smirk, eyes gleaming with an unsettling fanaticism. "We're just doin' what we're told, for a better future. Bellacia doesn't need the nobility—it never did."
The man's smile lingered for a moment before the world around them began to tremble. A deafening roar ripped through the night, as a series of explosions shook the city's foundation. The shockwaves reverberated through the stone beneath them, rattling Siegfried's bones. A burst of flames erupted in the lower districts, thick, black smoke swirling into the sky. Distant screams and the frantic tolling of bells rang through the chaos.
Siegfried's stomach churned as he turned toward the devastation. The lower districts were ablaze—fire devouring rooftops, spreading uncontrollably, faster than the city could ever hope to contain.
The prisoner chuckled hoarsely. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Twelve of you," Siegfried remarked to himself. The man had said twelve, at least—how many more were out there, waiting to strike?
Another explosion rocked the air, closer this time. The ground trembled beneath him, the force enough to make Siegfried stumble. He couldn't see it from here, but the blasts were unmistakable, coming from the Noble District.
Siegfried's eyes flicked back to the man, who was now groaning in agony on the ground. He crouched beside him, hands moving quickly, searching for anything that could give him an advantage. There.
The prisoner groaned, squirming feebly, but Siegfried ignored his futile protests. A thaumaturgical device—a bulky, misshapen cylinder—was strapped to the man's belt, a haphazard mess of wires. It pulsed faintly with a sickly orange glow.
"Give it back," the man whimpered.
Siegfried turned the device over in his hands, inspecting it carefully. It was a chaotic tangle, but his gut told him it was responsible for the explosions below. He wasn't an expert in thaumaturgy, but this was clearly dangerous.
The man's breath was shallow now, quick and uneven, his voice tremulous. "I need to do my part."
Another explosion tore through the air, rattling the ground beneath them. Closer this time—close enough to make the keep shake on its foundations. Siegfried's instincts screamed. He had no time.
With a swift motion, Siegfried unsheathed his blade and drove it into the man's chest. The zealot's eyes widened in shock, his breath catching in his throat before his body went still, life draining from him. Siegfried wiped his blade clean on the man's cloak, his face unreadable.
No time for prisoners. No time for second thoughts.
He shoved the device into his belt and sprinted toward the inferno below. The firestorm had spread too quickly, curling over rooftops, shadows flickering in the thickening smoke. The weight of the destruction hanging over him. The city teetered on the brink of collapse.
With the fire raging unabated, Brelith wouldn't survive the night, but the people still had a chance—if he acted swiftly.