Overwhelming Firepower

The play did not linger on a single moment. It moved from one thing to another. Days passed on the stage in the span of heartbeats.

The knight was shown at the walls, then in the streets, then standing alone before maps and messengers.

Victories followed one after another, enemy banners torn down, border fires extinguished, soldiers returning alive who had expected to die.

The official who supposedly spoke the word of the crown ordered the knight to go do one impossible mission after another, but the knight and his men remained victorious.

To prevent more losses, the knight strengthened his men through training and through their equipment. The money he gained from his victories were used to create a stronger army to better protect the people.

With each triumph, the city grew safer. Yet despite that, the growing strength of the knight and his army made those officials feel threatened.

The play showed no secret meetings at first. Only glances exchanged across council tables. Pauses that lingered too long after reports of victory were delivered.

During those meetings, the crown was never present. They would only send a single person to report the king, and the report would differ from what actually happened.

Seeing that scene, a few of the nobles wanted to say something, but stopped themselves as they understood that if they spoke now, it would sound like they were guilty of the same thing.

The scenes continued to the next. The knight was praised publicly, his name spoken with honor before the people, yet in private, his successes were measured not by lives saved, but by numbers counted. As if men were simply numbers on the table, measured by the coin they use.

Seeing this scene caused a stir among the commoners, but they tried not to show it too much since the nobles were also present.

The stage shifted again.

Illusions showed the same victories, but now retold by different mouths. The knight’s triumphs were recounted in council halls not as salvation, but as accumulation.

”How many soldiers does he command now?”

”How much steel answers his name?”

”How much coin passes through his hands?”

They spoke of his victories as if they were things that subtract from their riches.

The narrator spoke quietly, almost neutrally. ”A single person having too much success becomes a hindrance for others. One with noble ideas is often feared by those who have none.”

The narrator’s words lingered as the council hall darkened.

When the lights returned, new figures occupied the chamber. They were speaking in colder, hushed tones.

”Such power cannot remain unchecked,” one said.

”Yes, he’s getting too powerful.” Another spoke.

”His strength threatens the crown.”

Those who were watching knew that what these officials were saying was not true. The knight’s strength never threatened the crown; what it threatened was the officials’ authority.

The narrator did not raise his voice.

”Thus,” he said, ”the problem was no longer what the knight had done, but what he could do.”

The council chamber shifted again. Illusions showed documents being drafted, sealed, and rewritten.

Words like allocation, reassignment, and oversight appeared and vanished upon parchment. None accused the knight directly. None praised him either. Everything was framed as a necessity.

”The borders are quiet now.”

”The people are safe.”

”There is no longer a need for such... Concentration of force.”

On the stage, the knight was shown receiving orders that carried polite phrasing and empty smiles. His command was reduced, not openly, but carefully. A few of his men were reassigned, supplies were delayed, and requests were met with silence.

Despite protecting the citizens from bandits and other threats becoming difficult, he did not protest. He simply made do with whatever he had.

The narrator’s tone grew faintly heavier.

”They tried to restrain his influence by separating him from his loyal soldiers. They tried to break him with hardships. They tried to ruin him with words.”

The scene shifted again.

This time, the city streets returned—not burning, not celebrating, but busy. Merchants argued over prices. Guards stood watch. Life went on.

Then whispers began.

Illusions showed small groups of people leaning close to one another. A merchant lowers his voice. A guardsman glances around before speaking. A noble’s servant murmuring in a shaded corner.

”They say the knight refused an order.”

”I heard his soldiers answer to him before the crown.”

”Is it true he keeps weapons hidden outside the city?”

”Is he truly planning to revolt?”

The words spread not loudly, but efficiently. Each retelling changed slightly, sharpened at the edges, as if shaped by unseen hands.

The narrator spoke, calm as ever.

”Rumors do not need proof. They only need repetition.”

On the stage, the knight passed through the marketplace. Conversations faltered as he walked by. Some people still bowed. Others hesitated. A few looked away.

Children who once ran to him were gently pulled back by their parents.

Not in fear, but in doubt of him. The one who protected them all this time, they started to doubt him, because of a few simple words. The knight noticed the changes, but he did not react.

The audience watching the play, especially the commoners, started to think about what they were watching.

Why were the people doubting their protector without even seeing him do anything wrong? That was when a few commoners realized that they, too, were starting to doubt the Thorneharts, the ones who had shielded them from all dangers.

They started doubting them simply because of a few words they heard from others, yet the Thorneharts never showed any indication that they wanted the crown or wanted to revolt.

Was it because they started producing those strange weapons en masse? Didn’t they share that with the royals?

Then was it because they didn’t share everything they had? Don’t all the nobles do the same thing? Then why weren’t they the ones getting scrutinized for wanting to start a rebellion?

The curtain fell, and when it rose again, it showed the knight shackled and presented in front of an official as a crowd of people watched.

”You have been accused of rebellion against the crown. There are witnesses and proof of your disloyalty, what say you?” The official asked.

The knight looked at the official and the crowd, who were looking at him warily, and sighed.

”I have answered this before,” he said. His voice carried, but it did not press. ”I have never raised my blade against the crown. I have never commanded my men to do so.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. He lifted his gaze, not defiant, not pleading. Simply steady.

”If my loyalty is measured by rumors,” he continued, ”then no words of mine will outweigh them.”

The official’s expression did not change. ”The council has reached its conclusion,” he said. ”Until such concerns are… resolved, you are hereby stripped of command.”

The shackles tightened with a dull clink. ”You will be exiled from the city. Your arms surrendered. Your banners struck.” A pause. ”By the mercy of the crown, your life will be spared.”

The crowd, the people the knight protected, did not protest his sentencing; instead, they had a look of relief on their faces.

On the stage, the knight was led away. His armor was removed piece by piece, not violently, not cruelly, but methodically.

Each plate was taken as if reclaiming property, not stripping a man. His sword, the blade that had stood on the walls, was placed upon a velvet cloth and carried off without ceremony.

No cheers followed him like before; there were no curses either, there was only silence, and the quiet sound of the people’s relief.

At the city gates, the knight was shown standing alone. His shackles were removed. A single document was pressed into his hand, terms of exile, bearing seals and signatures.

He was given provisions for the road, nothing more. The knight looked at the city and the people he protected for so long, who now shunned him. He closed his eyes as the gates closed behind him.

The narrator’s voice returned, low and measured.

”To the people of the city, the knight who left was no longer their protector or savior. He was simply a man they thought was drowning in his own power, wanting to destroy their way of life. How unfortunate, how pitiable, that they would later regret this decision of theirs.”

The narrator’s voice did not linger to explain further.

The image of the closed gates remained on the stage, unmoving. No music played. No illusions followed. The knight was gone, and the city stood silent behind stone and iron.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the lights dimmed, not all at once, but in careful stages, as if the world itself were receding. The city faded first. Then the walls, then the gates, only the empty road remained.

Darkness swallowed the stage as the curtains fell. For several heartbeats, Vaelgard’s Theater House was utterly silent.

No applause followed. No murmurs rose immediately. Even the nobles remained still, as though reacting too quickly might betray something they did not wish to reveal.

Among the commoners, breaths were shallow. Some stared at the stage, others looked down at their hands, at their neighbors, at the nobles seated above them.

The children did not understand much of what they saw; they could understand why the people were bullying the knight, but instead, they simply understood that the knight was sad.

Only then did the bell sound a ringing sound in their ears, which was the signal for intermission.