Chapter 3: The Siege Begins

“Fire! Fire!”

The cry was high and panicked—enough to send a jolt through every Charlestonian. The city had burned before; the memory was never far away. In an instant, the banquet hall exploded into chaos.

A window on the north side flew open, and Charles Stanton—along with everyone else—was stunned to see flames licking up from a building nearby.

The sky outside glowed orange, smoke curling upward. The acrid stench of burning timber rolled in, burning eyes and tightening throats. Fear spread through the crowd like wildfire.

Right then, Henry Monroe—Mrs. Monroe’s nephew and commander of the city guard—sprang into action, barking orders to his men to fight the blaze.

Henry’s voice was calm, commanding—he’d been through worse and knew the city’s fate could hinge on a single moment. “Move! Buckets, now! Get the lines going!”

As the crowd surged toward the door, Captain Harold Gibson of the city police jumped onto a chair, waving his arms. “We’ve got this! Don’t just stand there—get moving and help!”

Gibson’s shout cut through the confusion, and a handful of guests leapt into action, forming a bucket line. For a moment, duty and adrenaline took over.

But before Gibson could finish, Charles Stanton spotted a familiar figure stumbling back into the hall.

It was Henry Monroe!

But something was horribly wrong—Henry wasn’t burned, he was bleeding, deep red stains spreading across his crisp white shirt.

The room froze. For a heartbeat, nobody moved. The horror was a living thing, thick and heavy in the air.

Before Henry could get a word out, he collapsed. A split second later, shouts of violence echoed from outside.

Boots hammered the cobblestones. Steel clashed somewhere in the dark. Suddenly, it was obvious—this was no ordinary fire. Something much darker was underway.

Charles Stanton, sharp-eared and fluent in the local drawl, pressed himself to the wall, straining to catch the frantic voices outside.

He heard it—clear as day. “Don’t let Henry Monroe escape—finish him off!”

A chill shot down Stanton’s spine. This wasn’t politics anymore. This was war—right here, right now.

In a flash, Stanton’s mind raced. He bolted for the window, following a handful of city officials out into the night, running flat-out toward the U.S. Army base.

His heart hammered, boots echoing on the stones. He ducked behind carriages, never looking back. He knew he couldn’t get Henry out alone—not with killers on the loose. All he could do was run for help. Samuel Whitaker was the only hope.

He cursed his own weakness, but kept running. Tonight, speed was the only thing that might save them.