Whispers of the False Light – Episode 3: “Fist of the False Light”
Lucien Vantrell ventures to the brutal stronghold of Lord Gunther, the Circle’s iron fist and secret general.
Tensions flare as ancient loyalty collides with modern mistrust—but Ardan’s mission demands obedience, not comfort.
Two soldiers are chosen, the girl will come, and in the silence of steel, war begins to whisper.
SCENE: The Hidden Compound of the Fist of the False Light
Western Carpathian Mountains, Austria. Snow whips across jagged cliffs, and high above a frozen valley rests a concealed fortress of black stone and steel—the war-temple of the Circle’s military arm. No signs. No gates. Only those invited ever find the path.
Inside, precision reigns. Steel boots echo. Runes are etched into the concrete walls like battle prayers. In a spartan office marked only by its stark austerity and a crimson banner bearing the sigil of the Fist, Lord Gunther sits behind his ironwood desk.
He is reading a sealed scroll—Ardan’s words. Again.
LORD GUNTHER (growling, thick Prussian accent):
"This is a joke, ja? The old man plays me like a marionette?"
Across the room stands Lucien Vantrell, arms folded behind his back, posture straight and patient, though his jaw tightens ever so slightly.
LUCIEN (measured, cool):
"I assure you, Lord Gunther. There is no joke in the words of the Grand Manipulator."
Gunther squints down at the parchment, jaw grinding.
LORD GUNTHER:
"He wants me to prepare a herald? A girl priestess from the mystics? This is not what the Fist was built for."
LUCIEN (calm but unyielding):
"No. It was built to obey. As you said when last we met: 'Light is a weapon, and you are its edge.'"
A heavy silence. Gunther stares at Lucien for a long beat. Then… he relents, with a grunt.
LORD GUNTHER:
"Very well. It is my duty to turn words into steel. The Fist is always ready to serve."
Lucien bows his head slightly.
LUCIEN:
"Your loyalty was never in question."
Gunther rises. Towering. He moves to a locked cabinet and pulls a dossier from within.
LORD GUNTHER:
"I have two men in mind—Vael and Sorin. Quiet. Brutal. Fanatical. They’ll do what needs to be done… without poetry."
LUCIEN (smiling faintly):
"Perfect."
LORD GUNTHER (muttering):
"But they'll need preparation. Conditioning. There is a cost."
LUCIEN (steely, without hesitation):
"The resources of the Circle are at your disposal. No matter the cost. This mission is absolute."
A deep chuckle rumbles from Gunther’s chest. He slaps the dossier shut.
LORD GUNTHER:
"I know someone who can help. An old general I trust. He owes me favors—and doesn’t ask questions."
He leans in slightly, voice low and deliberate.
LORD GUNTHER:
"Give me a month. Then send the girl."
LUCIEN:
"That will be satisfactory."
Gunther clenches his fist, knuckles white with tension, and slams it onto the desk.
LORD GUNTHER:
"I will keep the circle tighter than the blade in my grip. If there are saboteurs…"
LUCIEN (nods, voice edged):
"There are. Which is why this must be buried in silence."
Another long pause. Then Lucien exhales with cool detachment.
LUCIEN:
"I suppose I should finish my inspection. Appearances must be maintained."
Gunther walks him to the door, silent as a mountain.
LORD GUNTHER (with a grunt):
"Let them all play politics, Lucien. Here, we play for keeps."
Lucien’s only reply is a single, sharp nod.
EPILOGUE – SCENE: The North Pole – The Nutcracker Compound
The wind howls across the frozen plains outside the Nutcracker Compound, a brutalist fortress of ice and iron buried deep in the Arctic frost. Within, rhythmic stomps echo as the last remnants of the once-mighty Nutcracker Legion perform their drills. Four soldiers. Once they were hundreds. Now, they are nearly extinct.
Overlooking the icy drill floor from his command office stands the Nutcracker General—his silhouette stiff, arms folded behind his back. His uniform is immaculate, his expression etched in stone. He watches the drills with open disdain.
NUTCRACKER GENERAL (thinking):
"Weakness spread like rot. Krampus did what I should have done. Now, only the worthy remain."
A sharp RING breaks the silence. The desk phone, an archaic rotary relic, pulses red.
NUTCRACKER GENERAL (gruffly):
"HELLO. Who is this?"
A pause.
A low, familiar voice crackles on the other end, accented and firm.
LORD GUNTHER (voice-over):
"Lord Gunther. It has been too long, old friend."
The General's eyes narrow. Recognition. Then a flicker of something darker—interest.
NUTCRACKER GENERAL:
"Gunther... What do you want?"
LORD GUNTHER:
"I need men trained. Elite conditioning. Specialized silence. You’re still the best at that."
NUTCRACKER GENERAL (coldly):
"I have my own soldiers to harden, Gunther. Or what’s left of them."
LORD GUNTHER (without pause):
"Name your price …"
A long beat. Then the General chuckles dryly—short, sharp.
NUTCRACKER GENERAL:
"I’ll be there in three days’ time."
He hangs up without ceremony. The opportunity has rekindled something—an old fire. He steps to the door, throws it open with authority, his voice thunderous over the drills below.
NUTCRACKER GENERAL:
"CAPTAIN! Get up here—IMMEDIATELY!"
On the floor, the Nutcracker Captain snaps to attention and marches toward the command office without hesitation. The General watches him approach with grim satisfaction.
NUTCRACKER GENERAL (to himself):
"Time to sharpen the edge again."
FADE TO BLACK.
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