That not so important character turned out to be important

The sun rose, casting a dull light over the smoldering remains of the town. The once-thriving streets, now silent, were scarred with the aftermath of violence. Smoke billowed into the sky, lingering like a grim reminder of the destruction that had unfolded overnight. Charred buildings stood like hollowed-out ghosts, the smell of burned timber and ash clinging to the air.

The townsfolk gathered in small groups, whispering among themselves in hushed tones. Faces were pale with shock, eyes wide with anger and confusion. Children clung to their parents, afraid to move as they watched the ruins around them. The sight of their town, torn apart by fire, had shaken them to their core.

"Look at what they've done to us," a woman murmured, gesturing toward the blackened walls of the town hall, where the sigil of the Gifnar Knights had been painted in a crude, mocking fashion. "They've crossed a line now. No more pretending. We all know who's behind this."

A burly blacksmith spat on the ground, his fists clenched tight in fury. "Burning our homes, our businesses, our lives... Who do they think they are?"

"They think they own us," a shopkeeper added, her voice low but full of bitterness. "Just like they always have."

The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, building into a restless chorus of anger and fear. And then, amid the crowd, Vance appeared, making his way through the gathering, his gaze hard and distant. He felt the eyes on him—eyes filled with suspicion, distrust, and outright hatred.

But his eyes weren't on the crowd. They were fixed on one figure standing apart from the rest—Rosie. She stood motionless in front of the ruins of her flower shop, the place that had once been her sanctuary, now reduced to ash and rubble. Her face was ashen, her eyes dull with the weight of the devastation.

Vance hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt this way—this raw, exposed. But there was no time to think about it. He had to reach her. He had to make her understand.

"Rosie…" he said, his voice heavy with a mix of guilt and regret. "I didn't do this."

She didn't even flinch. Her gaze remained fixed on the wreckage of her shop, her face unreadable. For a moment, the silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, she slowly turned toward him, her eyes narrowing with something sharp and accusing.

"You didn't do it?" Rosie's voice was icy, but it trembled with emotion. "Don't lie to me, Vance. I know what you do. I know what all of you do—the Knights. You think I don't see? You think I didn't know?"

Vance's chest tightened, his mouth dry. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, but the words caught in his throat.

"You've always been part of that world," Rosie continued, her voice breaking as she took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "I've known all along. But I loved you anyway... despite the things you did, despite who you were. But this… this is too much."

She paused, and for the briefest moment, Vance thought she might break. But instead, her expression hardened, her lips trembling with fury.

"You've gone too far, Vance. Too far," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of heartbreak and anger.

And then, as if to drive the point home, she slapped him across the face. The sound echoed through the silence, a sharp sting against Vance's cheek. He stood frozen, stunned, unable to comprehend the force of the blow.

Rosie's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she looked at him one final time, her face a mixture of betrayal and sorrow. "Don't come near me again," she said, her voice quiet but filled with finality. "I can't be with someone like you anymore."

Vance felt his world collapse in on him. Her words were a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. His mind raced, but no coherent thought could break through the overwhelming grief and shame that flooded his chest. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something—anything—to make it right. But there was nothing left to say.

Rosie turned and walked away, leaving Vance standing there, trembling and lost. He wanted to reach out, to grab her, to make her understand that he wasn't the same man anymore. But the truth was, he wasn't sure he even knew who he was anymore.

The tears welled up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms, the pain grounding him in the moment. But it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.

And as Rosie disappeared into the crowd, Vance stood there alone, his heart shattered, his soul heavy with the weight of his actions. The destruction that had been wrought upon the town was nothing compared to the wreckage inside him.

"Maybe I deserve this," he whispered to himself, his voice breaking.

As Rosie walked away, leaving Vance standing in the wreckage of the town and his heart, the weight of her words crushed him deeper than the ash settling around them. He remained frozen, staring at the empty space where she had stood, his mind numb, his body heavy with grief. His crew, members of the Gafnar Knights, slowly gathered around him, sensing the shift in the air—the deep, painful rupture in the man they knew.

Vance didn't look up as they approached, his face drawn and somber. He could feel their presence, but the pain of Rosie's rejection was too much. He wasn't sure if he wanted their comfort or to be left alone to stew in his guilt. But he didn't have the strength to push them away.

"Vance..." Marcus spoke softly, but it was clear he had seen the pain etched into his friend's face.

Before he could respond, a cry went up from the crowd—a guttural, primal roar of rage. Vance stood frozen, watching as the townsfolk swarmed around his crew like a tidal wave, each face twisted with the heat of fear and anger. The streets that had once been filled with life now ran with chaos, bodies, and blood.

The man who'd first thrown a stone at them staggered forward, his eyes wide with terror and rage. Vance's hand instinctively went to his weapon, but before he could act, the crowd descended. People screamed, their words lost to the sheer volume of fury in the air.

"They're the ones!" a man yelled, his voice raw with emotion, as he swung a makeshift cudgel at Gareth, who barely blocked it. The blow missed but was quickly followed by another.

Vance's heart pounded in his chest. He saw the rage in the eyes of the people—not just at the Gafnar Knights, but at everything they represented. The destruction. The burning of their homes, their lives.

A woman in the crowd grabbed a torch, slashing it in Vance's direction. He barely dodged it, the flames singeing his cloak as the crowd surged closer. His mind was spinning, guilt eating him from the inside out. This wasn't just about the Knights anymore. This was about everything they had done, everything they had taken from these people.

"We're not the ones who burned your town!" Vance shouted, desperation seeping into his voice. "We didn't do it! You're making a mistake!"

But no one listened. The mob was deafened by their rage.

Suddenly, someone swung a heavy piece of wood, striking Gareth in the side. He staggered back, but Marcus was right there, knocking the attacker aside with a brutal shove. He raised his blade, a flash of steel, and the first man went down, blood spraying from a gash across his throat.

The sight of blood only pushed the mob further. With a frenzy, they began to charge, throwing whatever they could—rocks, bottles, broken pieces of the marketplace, anything that would do damage.

Gareth stepped forward, his own weapon raised. "Stay back!" he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the roars of the crowd.

It was chaos. The people didn't hesitate; they were already on top of them.

In an instant, a woman lunged at Marcus, clutching a jagged stone in her hand. He reacted before he even realized it, slashing down with his sword. The woman fell with a sharp scream, blood soaking the dirt beneath her.

A man charged at Vance next, his face contorted in hatred. Vance barely had time to react as the man swung a broken piece of timber at him. He blocked the strike with his sword, but the force of it knocked him off balance. With a violent movement, he thrust his blade forward. The man fell back, clutching at his chest.

But the crowd wasn't done. They pushed forward relentlessly, and as Vance's crew fought back, they only made things worse. More people were injured, more people were dying. The death toll began to rise, and the anger of the crowd grew fiercer.

Marcos, Gareth, and Vance were forced to fight their way through the crowd, cutting down anyone who came too close. Every swing felt like a betrayal. They were being driven into a corner—by their past actions, by their choices, by the fury of the people they had once called allies.

After what felt like hours, the trio managed to break free, fleeing down side streets, their escape marked by the sound of the town's wrath echoing behind them.

But they couldn't outrun the rage. As they reached the Gafnar hideout, they saw it.

Their refuge, their stronghold, was under attack.

The front doors were splintered. The walls had been smashed, and mobs, even angrier now, were storming inside. Their comrades fought back, but it was hopeless against sheer numbers. The townsfolk, emboldened by bloodlust, overwhelmed them.

Inside the hideout, the chaos was even worse. Members of the crew—some of them who had once been leaders—now fought like animals, desperate to hold back the fury of the mob. A figure in the corner, once an ally, thrust a burning barrel into the face of an attacker, sending them flying back in flames. But the number of casualties only grew.

One of the Knights, a younger recruit, had just thrown a bottle filled with poison at a group of civilians trying to scale the back wall. The bottle shattered, spilling the deadly substance onto the cobblestones below, sending a sickly green cloud into the air. It burned, and the people screamed as they staggered back. But the mob only grew angrier, their cries now focused on vengeance.

Vance, Marcus, and Gareth exchanged grim looks. They had done this. Their actions had turned the town into a furnace of fury, and now the heat of it was too much to bear. As they tried to regroup, the walls of the hideout began to give way, cracked and burning. Smoke began to curl through the cracks in the stone.

"We can't hold them off," Marcus muttered, looking to Vance with desperation in his eyes. "We're outnumbered. We have to leave."

They had no choice. The place they'd once called home was crumbling, burning from the inside out.

Vance nodded, his face grim as he looked at the faces of his brothers in arms—some of them already retreating, some continuing to fight in an effort to buy time. But there was no way to win this fight. The town had turned against them.

"Get the horses," Vance ordered through gritted teeth. "We're running."

As they fled into the streets, the flames of their hideout licking the sky behind them, the sound of the mob's rage pursued them. The streets were no longer safe, no corner untouched by the fury of the people.

"We can't stay here," Gareth said,

And with that, the three men—bloodied, broken, and forced to abandon everything they had fought for—ran, leaving behind a town that was no longer theirs, and a war that would forever haunt them.