The two Rift Guardians knelt in chains, their bodies bruised, their breaths ragged. They were both in a dimly lit chamber, the flickering glow of eldritch torches casting long shadows against the ancient stone walls. Gorlois stood before them, his imposing figure draped in regal black and crimson, his piercing gaze amused yet unrelenting.
One of the Rift Guardians gritted their teeth, then spat defiantly, "We sealed you away once—we can do it again!"
Gorlois chuckled, the sound deep and reverberating like a distant thunderclap. He took a slow step forward, the weight of his presence alone suffocating. "Are you truly so naïve as to think I could be deceived twice?" He tilted his head, his smirk widening. "And no, no… that's not what I need to hear from you."
The other Rift Guardian scoffed, despite the pain lacing their voice. "If it's the Chronosphere you want… it's gone. You'll never find it."
Gorlois exhaled through his nose, amused. "Such unwavering resolve. But tell me…" He released the Guardian's chin with a sudden shove, stepping back into the eerie glow of the torches. "How much pain can that resolve withstand?"
With a mere flick of his hand, dark tendrils of energy lashed out from the shadows, striking both Guardians with searing force. They gritted their teeth, refusing to scream, though agony rippled through their bodies.
Even in suffering, they defied him.
One of them, panting through the pain, lifted their head. "Why are you doing this?"
At that, something in Gorlois twisted.
His amusement faded. His smirk disappeared.
He strode forward with a sudden, violent fury, seizing the Guardian's face in his clawed grip. His burning eyes bore into theirs, his voice seething with venom.
"Have you forgotten what you did to me?"
The chamber rumbled as his rage pulsed through the air, and for the first time, the Guardian's defiance wavered.
For long ago, in a Wonderland untouched by war, before he was a monster, before he was a tyrant—Gorlois had been just a man.
He had stood in the Grand Courtyard of the Astral Citadel, the crisp morning breeze ruffling his training garb. Beside him, his closest friend, Uther, adjusted the bracers on his arms, a determined smirk playing on his lips.
"Are you ready for this?" Uther asked, throwing a playful elbow into Gorlois' side.
Gorlois rolled his eyes but grinned. "Are you?"
They had been young then, eager recruits standing at the gates of Wonderland's Grand Army, sworn to protect their realm. To Gorlois, this wasn't just a duty—it was his dream. Wonderland was a land of boundless wonder, but it was also fragile, teetering between order and chaos. It needed strong leaders. It needed protectors who would not falter.
And he dreamt that one day he would be one of them.
"Wonderland is vast," Gorlois mused, staring out at the gleaming towers of the capital. "So many forces threaten to tear it apart. But one day, I swear, we will make it unbreakable."
Uther chuckled. "Unbreakable? That's a big dream."
"One worth fighting for," Gorlois countered. "One worth dying for."
Time passed.
Gorlois and Uther were no longer mere soldiers—they were High Keepers, sworn protectors of Wonderland. They stood among the most powerful warriors of the realm, entrusted with the balance between order and chaos.
And time came when their service was needed. It came through the Outlanders.
Rifts tore open across Wonderland, spilling forth monstrous invaders from realms unknown. These creatures were unnatural—twisted forms of beasts and men, wielding foreign magic that corroded the very fabric of their world.
And so, war erupted.
In the heart of the Astral War Room, the High Keepers gathered, the dim candlelight flickering over a massive map sprawled across the table. A heavy silence loomed as their Commander, a towering figure clad in gleaming silver armor, traced a gauntleted hand over the parchment.
"The Outlanders are pushing deeper," the Commander said in a grim voice. "They've seized the Hanging Spires and now threaten the Moonlit Vale. If we lose the Vale, they'll have a direct path to the capital."
Uther crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "We can't let them reach the capital. What are our options?"
Gorlois studied the map, his golden eyes burning with determination. "We push back," he said firmly. "We don't give them the chance to dig in. We cut them down before they fortify their hold."
The Commander nodded. "That is the plan." He pointed at a mark on the map. "You and your forces will lead the charge from the eastern front, Gorlois. Uther, you'll flank them from the south. We'll pin them in and crush them between our forces."
Gorlois straightened, his fist tightening over the table's edge. This was his moment.
"This is what we trained for," he declared. "This is what Wonderland needs us for."
Uther shot him a glance, something like pride gleaming in his gaze. "Then let's finish this."
The Commander surveyed them all, then stepped back. "You ride at dawn. Dismissed."
The war room emptied, but Gorlois lingered. He stared down at the map, his mind running through every possible outcome. He had to win. They had to win.
Uther clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You're thinking too much."
Gorlois exhaled sharply. "I have to."
Uther smirked. "No, you don't. We're strong. We'll win."
Gorlois turned to face him fully. "I don't just want to win, Uther. I want to end this. The Outlanders, the Rifts… all of it." He clenched his fists.
Uther sighed, shaking his head with a tired smirk. "And we will. But first, we need to rest." He stretched his arms behind his head. "You're always thinking five steps ahead, Gorlois. Try thinking about now for once."
Gorlois met his gaze, then finally gave a slow nod.
"You're right. For tomorrow, those Outlanders will meet our wrath!"
Uther grinned. "That's the spirit." He turned, heading for the barracks. "Make sure you have plenty of rest tonight. We're gonna need it."
Gorlois watched as his friend walked away. His gaze drifted to the map, to the borders of Wonderland, and to the unknown lands beyond before letting off a sigh and walking after Uther.
The golden light of dawn painted the sky as the soldiers gathered in disciplined formations, the air thick with tension.
Gorlois adjusted the gauntlet on his arm as he walked toward Uther, who stood near his horse, fastening the last of his armor.
Uther glanced up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You look like you haven't slept."
Gorlois huffed. "Didn't have the time."
"You never do." Uther's smirk faded as he patted his sword hilt. "Stay sharp, Gorlois. We win this, and Wonderland will know peace again."
Gorlois met his gaze, nodding. "Then let's make sure we win."
The call to march echoed across the camp.
Uther swung into his saddle and held out a fist. Gorlois smirked slightly, bumping his own against it. No words needed to be said.
Then, they turned away, each leading their own forces into battle.
The eastern front erupted into chaos.
Gorlois led the charge with ruthless precision, his sword carving through the enemy ranks like a storm given form. He weaved through the battlefield, his soldiers following his every command, their blades cutting through the Outlanders like a well-oiled machine.
Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel, the scent of blood thick in the air. The enemy was relentless, but Gorlois' forces pushed forward, unwavering. He could see the tides turning in their favor.
Then—a sudden burst of red smoke in the distance.
His breath hitched.
The southern signal.
His eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze toward the hills beyond the battlefield. That was Uther's position.
Something was wrong.
Without hesitation, he turned his horse and raised his voice above the clamor of war. "Pull back! Fall back to the fortress!"
His soldiers, trained to follow his orders without question, immediately began retreating toward a nearby fortress nestled within the cliffs. The Outlanders pursued, but Gorlois' vanguard pushed them back just enough to secure an organized withdrawal.
As soon as they reached the fortress gates, Gorlois dismounted and turned to a small group of his most trusted fighters.
"Uther is in dire need of help," he said, his voice tight with urgency. "We need to rescue them—now."
One of the soldiers hesitated. "But sir, if we leave now, the Outlanders will—"
"The rest of you hold the line until we return," Gorlois cut in, his golden eyes burning. "We don't leave our own behind."
There was no argument after that.
With a handful of warriors at his back, Gorlois turned and raced toward the south.
Gorlois and his elites arrived on a ridge overlooking the battlefield. The scene below was dire—Uther's forces were pinned, surrounded by a wave of Outlanders pressing in from all sides. The banners of Wonderland's army were barely holding their ground, and the bodies of fallen soldiers littered the valley.
A scout rushed toward Gorlois, panting heavily. "Sir! We've been observing from the ridgeline—Commander Uther is holding position near the ruined chapel at the valley's center. His forces are trapped. They tried breaking through, but the Outlanders reinforced their flanks. They've got archers positioned on the cliffs and cavalry ready to cut off any retreat."
Gorlois scanned the battlefield, eyes sharp. The Outlanders had used the terrain against them, boxing Uther in where he had no easy escape. Any attempt to break through would be met with devastating counterattacks.
"Damn it…" Gorlois muttered under his breath. A direct charge would be suicide.
His mind worked fast—then, a strategy formed. A classic maneuver, used by brilliant commanders before him.
He turned to his men. "We're going to make a diversion for them. Dullahan, I need you to lead a few men to distract them! Pretend to attack but don't engage. Hit them just enough to catch their attention. Understood?"
Dullahan gave a sharp nod, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Understood. We'll give them something to chase."
Gorlois then turned to his men and uttered a few more commands.
A murmur of understanding rippled through the warriors.
Gorlois unsheathed his blade. "Hold nothing back when the time comes. We carve a path straight to Uther. The rest hold position and prevent any reinforcements from closing in. We get him out, or we die trying. Understood?"
A chorus of determined voices responded, "Understood!"
Dullahan chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Well then. Let's go make some noise."
At Gorlois' signal, Dullahan and his unit charged down the slope, their battle cries ringing through the valley as they slammed into the Outlanders' left flank. The enemy forces reeled from the sudden assault, momentarily thrown into disorder.
Steel clashed, warriors roared, but Dullahan's group did not stay to fight. After a few well-placed strikes, they began to withdraw—slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, as if they were struggling to hold the line.
The Outlanders saw an opportunity.
They surged forward in pursuit, eager to crush what they assumed were retreating reinforcements.
Gorlois watched from the ridge, his grip tightening around his sword. They took the bait.
Now came the killing blow.
"Move!" Gorlois commanded.
With precise coordination, his force swept down from the high ground, striking deep into the enemy's exposed rear flank. The Outlanders, caught completely off guard, faltered.
Gorlois cut through them like a storm, his blade moving with deadly precision. His warriors followed suit, slashing through the enemy ranks. The battlefield, once a trap for Uther, was now turning into a slaughter for the Outlanders.
Uther's forces, seeing their enemies in disarray, pushed forward, breaking free from their entrapment.
Gorlois fought his way toward Uther, cutting down an Outlander who had been inches from skewering his old friend.
"Uther!" Gorlois shouted over the din of battle.
Uther, panting and bloodied, turned toward him, a wide grin breaking through his exhaustion. "You insane bastard, you actually came! And thanks!"
"No time to celebrate—fall back to the fortress!" Gorlois ordered.
With their path now clear, Uther's forces retreated in formation, Gorlois and his elites covering them.
Only when they crossed the final ridge, putting solid distance between themselves and the battlefield, did Gorlois allow himself a breath.
Now that Uther's forces were reunited with Gorlois' army, they could turn the tide. There was no hesitation—only purpose.
Gorlois turned to his warriors, their armor dented, their faces lined with exhaustion, but their eyes still burned with the will to fight. He raised his sword high.
"We're not done yet," he declared. "The eastern front is still engaged. We take back the field—together!"
A roar of agreement erupted from the ranks.
Uther clapped a hand on Gorlois' shoulder. "I trust you have another brilliant maneuver?"
Gorlois smirked. "Something simple this time—we hit them with everything we have."
Uther chuckled. "I like it."
With no time to lose, they rallied their combined forces and marched toward the eastern front at full speed.
The eastern front had been locked in a brutal stalemate, with Gorlois' forces holding their ground inside the fortress while the Outlanders attempted to breach their defenses. Smoke filled the air, cries of battle rang out, and the clash of steel echoed across the valley.
Then, like a storm breaking the horizon, Gorlois and Uther's united army charged into the fray.
The Outlanders never saw them coming.
A sudden war horn blasted across the battlefield as the reinforcements struck the enemy's rear.
Gorlois led the charge, slashing through the ranks with terrifying precision. His warriors followed, their momentum crushing through the enemy line like a tidal wave.
Uther and his knights swept in from the side, cutting off any chance of retreat.
The Outlanders, now surrounded and battered from both sides, began to break.
Cries of panic spread among them. Some tried to flee, but there was nowhere left to run.
Gorlois raised his blade, his voice cutting through the battlefield.
"FOR WONDERLAND!"
The soldiers echoed his cry, their spirits ignited.
Steel met flesh, arrows flew, and shields shattered as the final stand was waged.
Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity…
And then—it was over.
The Outlanders had been routed.
Gorlois stood amid the fallen, his sword dripping with blood, his breath heavy. He turned to Uther, who was leaning on his sword, grinning despite his exhaustion.
"We did it," Uther exhaled.
Gorlois nodded, scanning the battlefield. Victory was theirs.
But as he looked at the bodies around him—Wonderlanders and Outlanders alike—a shadow flickered in his gaze.
"This isn't the end, Uther," he muttered.
Uther, still catching his breath, gave him a puzzled look. "What are you talking about?"
Gorlois tightened his grip on his sword. "So long as the Rift remains open… this war will never truly end."
Fast forward in the castle, the Great Hall of the High Keepers was alive with celebration. Banners of Wonderland's noble houses draped the towering pillars, and golden chandeliers cast a warm glow upon the gathered warriors. The scent of fine wine and roasted meat filled the air, but Gorlois barely noticed.
At the head of the hall, their commander, Lord Alden, stood tall, his armor polished to perfection. His voice carried across the room, firm and proud.
"Let it be known that today, we celebrate not just a victory, but the courage of those who made it possible." His gaze swept over the assembled warriors before settling on two figures. "High Keepers Uther and Gorlois, your leadership in the eastern front has proven invaluable. Your names will be etched into Wonderland's history."
A cheer erupted from the warriors, goblets raised in their honor. Gorlois and Uther stepped forward as Lord Alden pinned medals of valor upon their chests.
"For your bravery and strategic brilliance," Alden continued, "Wonderland owes you both a great debt."
Gorlois bowed his head in acknowledgment, feeling the weight of his accomplishments. He had fought for this moment, bled for it.
As the ceremony continued with other awards being given, Gorlois and Uther found themselves standing to the side, away from the main crowd.
Uther took a sip of wine before turning to Gorlois with a genuine smile. "I never did get the chance to thank you properly," he said. "If it weren't for you, I'd probably be lying in a ditch somewhere."
Gorlois smirked, shaking his head. "If you had died, I would've had to go through the trouble of avenging you. So really, you saved me the effort."
Uther chuckled. "Always thinking ahead." He patted Gorlois on the shoulder. "But truly, I owe you. Next time, I'll be the one saving you."
Gorlois simply nodded, though a part of him knew he never wanted to be in a position where he needed saving.
Then—a sudden announcement cut through the hall.
"Let all bear witness," Lord Alden's voice rang out, "that by decree of the High Council and the will of the Crown—Uther is to be named the new Commander of Wonderland's Forces!"
A stunned silence filled the hall, quickly replaced by thunderous applause.
Gorlois felt a pang of something deep within him.
Envy.
He hid it well, keeping his expression neutral, but his fingers curled slightly.
Still, he turned to Uther and extended a hand. "Congratulations, Commander."
Uther, beaming, clasped his hand firmly. "We both deserve this, Gorlois. I may have the title, but I'll always trust you as my right hand."
Gorlois forced a smile. "Of course."
The hall erupted in celebration around them, but Gorlois barely heard it.
He had been there, leading charges, making the decisions that won them the battle. And yet, it was Uther who had been chosen.
A seed of doubt began to grow inside him.
A year has passed, and yet, the winds of war never ceased.
Still, Uther's forces had pressed forward, gaining ground against the Outlanders, their victories mounting with every battle. Gorlois had fought alongside them, ever the loyal right hand of the new commander. And yet, despite his contributions, the shadow of Uther's command loomed large over him.
Now, once again, he stood before his oldest friend.
Uther's war table was littered with maps, scouting reports, and strategic markers. He tapped a location with a gauntleted finger. "We've finally found it—the supply depot fueling the Outlander army. It's deep within their territory, but if we cut it off, we cripple their war efforts."
Gorlois leaned in, his sharp eyes scanning the details. "And you're certain this is the heart of their supply lines?"
"As certain as we can be," Uther said. "Our scouts have confirmed it. If we strike fast, we can deal a devastating blow before they even realize what's happening."
Gorlois nodded. "Then we strike."
Uther exhaled, a hint of tension in his features. "This is a dangerous mission, Gorlois. You'll have to go deep into enemy territory, and there's no guarantee of reinforcements if things go south."
Gorlois smirked. "When have I ever needed reinforcements?"
Uther chuckled, shaking his head. "Reckless as ever." He placed a firm hand on Gorlois' shoulder. "I wouldn't trust this mission to anyone else. You're the best tactician we have. I know you'll find a way to succeed."
Gorlois met his gaze, feeling a flicker of pride at Uther's words. "I won't fail."
"I know you won't."
Uther stepped back, his expression turning solemn. "Then go. And good luck, Gorlois."
With a final nod, Gorlois turned on his heel and strode from the war room. His mind was already working, formulating the perfect plan.
Within the hour, Gorlois and his chosen soldiers rode out. A handpicked force of hardened veterans, each one a warrior who had proven their worth in the brutal campaigns of the past year. They moved under cover of darkness, avoiding enemy patrols, following secret trails known only to their spies.
Gorlois led from the front, as he always did. He had no need for grand speeches. His men followed him because they believed in him, because his strategies had brought them through impossible battles before.
As the moon hung high in the sky, they reached the outskirts of the Outlander supply depot.
It was time.
Gorlois surveyed the enemy position, his keen mind analyzing every detail.
The depot was heavily fortified—wooden palisades, watchtowers, and roving patrols. But fortifications meant nothing to him. He had overcome worse.
With a smirk, he turned to his men.
"This is it. We strike fast, strike hard. Follow my lead."
The soldiers nodded without hesitation.
And so, with silent steps and steel resolve, Gorlois led his warriors into the heart of the enemy's stronghold.
Gorlois and his soldiers moved swiftly, cutting through the shadows like specters. Every step was measured, every movement precise. No alarms had been raised. The Outlander supply depot remained still, its guards seemingly unaware of the approaching threat.
Something felt wrong.
The silence was too perfect.
Gorlois narrowed his eyes as they reached the outer barricades. The sentries stood in place, motionless. Even from a distance, he could see the stiffness in their postures.
A cold realization crept up his spine.
"They're not moving..." whispered one of his men.
That was when the first arrow struck.
TWANG.
A cry of pain rang out as one of Gorlois' soldiers crumpled to the ground, an arrow buried deep in his chest.
Then—CHAOS.
The night erupted with war cries. The shadows around them came alive as Outlander warriors sprang from hidden positions, weapons gleaming under the moonlight.
From behind the walls, torches flared to life, revealing rows of archers already in position.
They had walked right into an ambush.
"It's a trap!"
"Shields up!" Gorlois roared, instantly shifting from offense to defense. His men obeyed without question, forming a tight shield wall as arrows rained down upon them.
From the flanks, Outlander warriors surged forth. They had been waiting—expecting them.
One of Gorlois' scouts scrambled to his side. "Commander! It seemed like they knew we were coming! Someone—"
"Silence. We hold our ground till we find a way out of this!," Gorlois spat, his mind racing for strategies to get them out of their unfortunate fate.
Another volley of arrows tore through the air. More men fell. They were outnumbered, outflanked, and pinned down.
Yet Gorlois did not panic.
"Fall back! Regroup at the ridge!" he bellowed. "Move! Move!"
His men obeyed, fighting tooth and nail to break free from the encirclement. But the Outlanders were relentless, pushing them back with ruthless efficiency.
Through the chaos, Gorlois' mind raced. He analyzed every possible route, every potential weakness in the enemy's formation.
His men fought with desperation, cutting their way through the enemy ranks. Steel clashed, arrows whistled, and screams of pain filled the battlefield. Gorlois himself fought at the front, his blade carving through Outlander flesh, his shield a wall against the relentless assault.
But for every enemy they cut down, three more took their place.
They had to move faster.
"Commander! They're closing in from the west!" Rellan, the scout, shouted, barely parrying a strike from an Outlander warrior.
Gorlois turned and saw it—another group of enemies surging from the side, trying to cut them off before they reached the ridge.
A pincer maneuver.
A trap within a trap.
"Damn it!"
He had no choice.
"Dullahan,, take ten men and hold them off!" Gorlois commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "The rest of us—we make for the ridge! Now!"
Dullahan hesitated only for a second, then nodded, rallying his small force to face the incoming flank. A suicide mission. But they all knew—if they didn't slow the enemy, the entire force would be wiped out.
"Go, Commander!" Dullahan shouted, raising his sword. "We'll buy you time!"
Dullahan clenched his jaw but did not waste the sacrifice. He turned and ran, leading his remaining soldiers up the ridge.
By the time they reached the top, only half of his men remained. Bloodied, battered, exhausted—but alive.
They turned back and saw Dullahan's force overwhelmed, the Outlanders slaughtering them with brutal efficiency. The last thing Gorlois saw was Dullahan standing his ground, taking three enemies with him before his head was cut off from his body and came tumbling down.
Gorlois' fists clenched in fury.
But there was no time to mourn. The Outlanders were already advancing up the ridge.
"We make our stand here!" Gorlois barked, raising his sword. "Form up! Shields together!"
The men obeyed, forming a tight shield wall. They would hold—or they would die fighting.
Gorlois tightened his grip on his sword as the Outlanders surged up the ridge. His men stood firm, their shields locked together, bracing for the onslaught. They would not break easily.
Then, from the side, a bloodied and wounded Rellan stumbled up the ridge, clutching his side where an arrow had pierced through his armor.
"Commander!" he gasped, staggering toward Gorlois.
Gorlois' eyes widened. "Rellan?!—"
"There's no time!" Rellan cut him off, gripping his arm. His breath was ragged, his face pale. "There's an escape route. A narrow path behind the ridge—it leads down to the river valley. But only one man can make it through in time."
Gorlois frowned. "Then we lead the men through it!"
Rellan shook his head, his expression grim. "You know can't all make it Commander. The enemy will overrun us before we get there."
The sounds of clashing steel and desperate cries filled the air as the Outlanders pressed harder against the shield wall. His soldiers—his brothers—were dying around him.
"You have to go, Commander," Rellan urged, gripping Gorlois' arm tighter. "Escape. Survive for us—avenge us. If you die here, it's over."
Gorlois' chest tightened. The thought of leaving his men behind—**of abandoning them—**made his stomach twist.
"I can't just leave you here to die," he growled.
Rellan let out a weak chuckle. "You think we don't already know what this is? We were dead the moment we walked into this trap." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "But if you live, this battle isn't in vain. You have to tell them what happened here."
Gorlois' breath hitched.
Rellan coughed, blood staining his lips. "Go now, before it's too late!"
Gorlois looked at his men—his warriors, still fighting, still holding the line. They would not stop. They would not run.
His heart waged war against itself. But he was no use to them dead.
Slowly, he nodded. "I will remember all of you."
Rellan managed a weak smile. "That's all we ask."
And with that, Gorlois turned, his fists clenched, his heart heavy with the weight of their sacrifice, and ran toward the narrow escape route—toward survival.
The road back to the capital stretched before him, but Gorlois felt none of its familiar comfort. Every step he took was haunted by the screams of his dying men—their faces burned into his mind. They had been betrayed. He knew it in his gut. But that wasn't enough. He needed proof.
By the time he neared the city gates, his armor was caked with dust, his body weary, but his mind sharper than ever. He could not reveal himself—not yet. Slipping into the shadows, he stripped off the insignias from his armor, replacing them with the markings of a common knight. A full helm concealed his face, and with his tattered cloak draped over him, he fell in line with a returning patrol.
No one gave him a second glance as he crossed the threshold into the capital.
Just as he stepped into the castle courtyard, his breath caught.
Uther stood atop the steps leading to the council chamber, his expression tense as he spoke with the elders. Gorlois moved carefully, keeping his distance, watching, listening.
"It's been too long," Uther's voice carried through the open hall. His brows furrowed with worry. "Gorlois' forces should have returned by now. Something's wrong. If we wait any longer, there might not be anyone left to save. We have to send reinforcements."
One of the elders, a stout man adorned in crimson robes with the symbol of a heart emblazoned on his chest, scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "We don't need to waste resources on that fool."
Uther's jaw tightened. "He is not a fool! He is one of our finest commanders. He and his men—"
"Are replaceable," the elder cut him off coldly. "We should be thanking the heavens if that lunatic is finally dead. It saves us the trouble of removing him ourselves."
The words slammed into Gorlois like a blade to the chest.
So they meant for him to die.
The Outlanders knew they were coming. This was no mere coincidence.
It had all been planned. They had sent him to his death.
Gorlois' blood boiled under his armor, his fists clenching at his sides. He forced himself to stay rooted to the spot, to remain just another faceless knight in the courtyard. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out the rest of their words. He wanted to lash out, to strike them down where they stood.
But no.
Not yet.
He took a step back. Then another. Carefully, he turned and strode out of the castle, forcing his rage into silence. Only when he reached the outer walls, beyond the watchful eyes of the capital, did he allow himself to breathe.
Then, with a voice thick with fury, he uttered his curse, his oath.
"They took everything from me." His breath came out in ragged gasps, fists trembling at his sides. "I will take everything from them in return."
A cold wind howled through the night.
And in that moment, Gorlois ceased to be a knight of Wonderland.