The landing was executed in a heavy, viscous silence. There were no banners, no stirring marches. Masssive flat-bottomed barges ground against the stones, vomiting soot-gray men from their hulls. Iron clashed against iron; the air reeked of wet wool and cheap gun oil.
Eli stepped onto the shore once the first wave of infantry had already secured the beach. He didn't look at the soldiers or search for the officers. His gaze was fixed on the castle, its spires drowning in the thick black smoke of the recent bombardment. He adjusted the heavy sling of his broadsword; his shoulder ached under the weight of a cuirass that fit him like a stranger's skin.
"Move out," he tossed to a nearby sergeant. Short. No wasted words.
The "Iron" squad began their ascent up the slope. Their boots sank into soil churned with ash. The soldiers breathed heavily, gripping their cumbersome muskets. No one was eager for heroics; the air hung thick with the grim resolve of men who had come to do a dirty job and leave as quickly as possible.
The castle greeted them with gaping holes in the masonry and splintered gates. Inside, it smelled of ancient dust and char. Eli walked in the middle of the formation, eyes downcast. His wrath required no outward display—it sat deep in his gut, a cold, nauseating weight. He just wanted it to end. He wanted this place to cease existing.
They entered the throne hall. The smoke from the cannon volleys had not yet cleared; it hung from the ceiling in ragged gray tatters.
The guard stood exactly where he had been before. Motionless, like a piece of the architecture. His presence infuriated Eli with its constancy. The world around them was collapsing, the Empire was building fleets, people were dying—and this statue just stood there.
Eli stopped ten paces away. He didn't shout accusations. He simply raised his hand, signaling the musketeers to form a firing line.
"Ready," the sergeant commanded.
The dry click of hammers being cocked echoed through the room. The soldiers set their rests and leveled the heavy barrels of their muskets. Eli stared into the gap between the guard's helmet and gorget. The silence of the hall pressed against his ears harder than the roar of the surf outside.
From the shadows, just as before, the youth stepped out. He didn't look frightened or surprised. He simply leaned against a pillar, watching twenty black barrels aim squarely at his chest.
Eli felt a bead of sweat slide down his face. The youth looked directly at him. There was no defiance in that gaze—only a tired acknowledgment of fact.
"Fire," Eli said softly.
The hall exploded.