Outside the Palace, Within the Forest – The Pre-Dawn Hours
Night had cast its heavy veils, and the wind whistled through the tall trees like a mournful groan. Raymond ran with swift strides, his breath coming in rapid bursts, his body trembling from both cold and tension. His left hand was clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword, as if gripping life itself.
His eyes gleamed in the darkness with unshakable resolve, shining with every moonbeam that slipped through the forest branches.
Then… he suddenly stopped.
His eyes widened as he glimpsed a fleeting movement among the shadows. Something unnatural to the forest. Shadows of men moving in deadly harmony, silent, as if the very earth did not feel their footsteps.
Raymond gritted his teeth, whispering to himself in a voice barely audible: "They're here…"
He tightened his grip on the sword and turned nimbly to disappear among the trees, moving closer toward Skyrok Castle, his heart pounding like war drums about to be struck.
Skyrok Palace – Inside Earl Yukron's Chamber
Inside the palace, on the third floor, in the spacious chamber with cold stone walls, the group had gathered around a wide oak table. Scattered maps, burning candles, and tense, watchful eyes heavy with anticipation.
King Irvin Luskarth sat at the head of the room, leaning on his cane, his ember-like eyes scanning each face one by one. Silence hung so thickly over the place that one could almost hear the beating of hearts.
The King raised his quiet yet sharp voice: "Let's begin… First, how many men do we have?"
Earl Nicholas Sparoff stepped forward, bowed slightly, and said in his deep voice: "I brought nine men with me, Your Majesty. All are knights seasoned in the field."
The King gestured with his cane as if recording the number in his mind. Then he turned. Marchioness Atris Starkov lifted her sharp head and said with her usual coldness: "Four men, no more. But they are men born in the saddle, accustomed to blood."
Irvin closed his eyes for a moment, calmly adding the numbers, then said: "Thirteen…" Then, he shot a sharp glance at Yukron and said in a measured tone: "With the palace's permanent guard, what is the count?"
Yukron answered firmly: "Twenty-eight here, inside. And as we know, Ser Darren took forty-two men with him to take down the First Battalion deep in the forest."
Irvin raised his head slightly, as if balancing the numbers in his mind, then said in a tone as sharp and quiet as a sword's edge: "Ninety men…"
Silence fell. Faces tensed. Breaths grew heavy with the weight of reality.
And suddenly, from behind the thick wooden door, a voice rough as thunder erupted: "One hundred and five."
Everyone turned in surprise. The door opened slowly, and Duke Blatir Vanheim appeared, towering, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway, his stern face like carved stone.
He stepped inside, followed by Duke Sathiron Blackmirth with steady steps, his eyes like blazing black swords. His deep voice resonated: "One hundred and twenty."
They stood together before King Irvin, with unshakable confidence, as if their presence had added a new wall to the castle.
Blatir Vanheim stood tall, as if the very earth dared not disturb his dignity, his eyes gleaming with a biting coldness as he pierced the silence with a sharp voice, not without a hint of mocking sarcasm.
Blatir: "I will not allow myself to die here… Does anyone think my end could be written within walls like these?"
He didn't pay much attention to the attendees, instead uttering his words like a final verdict, needing no confirmation.
Yukron's eyes narrowed, his fists clenched as if he were about to explode, but he restrained himself, keeping the anger trapped within his chest.
Beside Blatir stood Sathiron, one who did not indulge in wordplay or boastful slogans. His features were stony, his tone solid as a sword's edge, leaving no room for doubt.
Satheron: "Of course you won't… Not because you are immortal, but because you have forced yourself to be so."
Then, another moment of tension… until the door opened again. Earl Virion Rosefeld entered and stood beside them. Some eyes turned to him warily. He looked around as if testing the atmosphere, then raised an eyebrow sarcastically and said: "What… do you expect me to say it too?"
He paused for a moment, then sighed, and this time his voice became hard as steel: "One hundred and thirty-four, Your Majesty."
Some of the men exhaled in relief, and faint smiles were exchanged among a few faces. As if the silence that had choked the room began to crack slightly.
Then… King Irvin slowly straightened, lifting his body with all his dignity, his eyes examining the men standing before him. A harsh seriousness settled on his features, the kind everyone knew… the moment before a fateful decision was announced.
He turned to his right, where Duke Lucas Nightover stood, his hands behind his back, his eyes steady as if seeing farther than anyone else.
Irvin stopped before him, looked into his eyes for a long moment, then in a soft, firm, confident voice… he spoke.
Lucas: "… One hundred and fifty, Your Majesty."
Silence fell again. But this time… it was not a silence of fear or hesitation. It was the silence of weighted meaning. The equation was complete.
King Irvin took a deep breath, as if swallowing all the conflict within his chest, then closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, there was only the glint of a man who knew the road ahead would be blood and fire, but there was no turning back.
He raised his head high, and this time his voice was like that of a sacred war bell: "Then… we have one hundred and fifty men."
Outside the Palace, Within the Forest – The Pre-Dawn Hours
As darkness cast its heavy veils over the Skyrok forest, and the last leaves succumbed to a cold wind carrying the omen of death, Raymond Vanheim stood alone in the heart of the gloom. His breath raced with the beating of his heart, and his eyes—like two embers in a cold grave—caught the slightest movement among the tangled trees. He knew the decisive moment was approaching, that the fate of the entire kingdom hung on the edge of a sword.
Raymond, His voice like the grating of ancient stones: "Where are you, cowards? Hiding in the embrace of the darkness?"
He was not only speaking to the enemy but also to the specter of betrayal that permeated the air. His grip on the sword's hilt was tighter than ever, as if holding onto the last thread of hope.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a branch snapping in the opposite direction. He did not hesitate. He lunged like a wounded lion, his sword gleaming under the pale moonlight like the fang of a hungry wolf.
Raymond, Shouting in defiance: "Come out and face your fate! Or are you afraid of a man with no name?!"
The response was not verbal but a flash of steel in the darkness. Three men leaped from among the trees, their swords drawn and their eyes gleaming with hatred. But Raymond was faster. His movements were like a dance of death—every strike calculated, every step deliberate.
Within moments, the three bodies lay at his feet, blood staining the ground crimson. He breathed deeply, trying to suppress the tremor that swept through his body. It was not a tremor of fear but of certainty—the certainty that this was only the beginning.
Skyrok Castle – Inside Earl Yukron's Chamber
The atmosphere was charged with tension and anticipation. King Irvin stood before the maps spread across the table, his eyes fixed on the lines and symbols drawn on them as if they were runes of destiny.
Irvin, His voice quiet yet carrying the weight of thunder: "One hundred and fifty men against one thousand. Numbers do not lie, but they also do not tell the whole story."
He raised his head, his gaze shifting among the faces surrounding him. Each face held a story, each eye concealed a secret.
Yukron, Stepping forward, his voice deep as the rumble of the earth: "Numbers are not everything, Your Majesty. Our men fight for their land, for their honor. That is what sets us apart from them."
Blatir Vanheim laughed, a short, cold laugh, like a knife cutting through the silence. He stood tall, slowly adjusting his heavy military coat, then spoke with sarcasm not devoid of mockery.
Blatir: "Honor…? I will not allow myself to die here crucified on an empty word. Honor does not stop arrows nor break enemy lines. If cunning and strategy do not support us, nothing will remain of us but ashes."
Some eyes turned toward him with concealed sharpness, but Duke Sathiron Blackmirth raised his voice in a tone as solid as breaking stone.
Sathiron: "Honor is not a word; it is blood flowing in our veins. For dying here… is better than living on one's knees before a stranger."
His words fell heavily, like a stone dropped into a deep well.
Glances were exchanged among those present, each seeking approval or opposition in the eyes of the others. Even Marchioness Atris, who had remained silent for most of the time, could not withhold her comment.
Atris, In a dry, sharp tone: "Words will not save us. Actions will. Where is your plan?"
Irvin turned toward Lucas Nightover, who had been standing in the shadows, his eyes closed as if communicating with hidden forces.
Irvin: "Lucas... your opinion?"
Lucas opened his eyes slowly, like one returning from the depths of a dark sea. Reflected in his eyes was an icy glint, hinting not only at knowledge but also at danger.
Outside the Palace – The Forest – The Pre-Dawn Hours
The darkness was a living entity, creeping among the intertwined tree trunks, enveloping them in its damp, heavy arms. An eastern wind, cold and carrying the scent of wet soil and rotting pine, whipped up the dead leaves, swirling them ghostlike under the pale moonlight, which seemed like a dead eye peering through gray velvet clouds. In the heart of this gloom stood Raymond Vanheim—not merely a man, but a statue of embodied tension. His breath rose as white smoke in the biting air, mingling with the vapor of his cold sweat. In his ears, there was only the thrum of his own silence, pulsating like a mad war drum.
Raymond, Whispering, his voice like stones grinding beneath the earth: "Where are you!!"
His words were not solely for the enemy but a challenge to the very face of betrayal, which reeked of a metallic scent like old blood. His grip on the sword's hilt—that blade Darren had called "Moonfire"—was like a final clench at the edge of the abyss. The roughness of his calloused palm rubbed against the cold metal, emitting a faint, solitary sound in the overwhelming silence.
Then... the silence broke.
Creek!
It was not the sound of a branch breaking but a dry, sharp noise, like a bone snapping intentionally. It came from among the dense black oak trees to the right.
He did not hesitate. He lunged. His movement was not that of a wounded lion but of a spectral wolf that knew death lay ahead and behind. His sword did not gleam under the moon but absorbed that faint light to emit a dull, lethal gray blade. He pierced the darkness like a silent arrow.
The response was lightning-fast, silent, and deadly.
Three shadows detached from the wall of gloom—not like men, but like creatures molded from chaos and iron. Their swords did not shine but were dull like their hearts; only their eyes—wide, blazing with a stupid flame of hatred—cast an animalistic glare toward him. The stench of rotten garlic and taut leather emanated from them.
But Raymond was a river flowing in a still night. His movements were not a dance of death but a precise geometry of will. He avoided the first strike with a slight shift of his left shoulder; the foreign sword whistled inches from his ear. In the same motion, his blade plunged under the armpit of the first attacker, seeking the heart. A muffled, gurgling cry. He did not wait for the body to fall. He withdrew the sword with a deadly grace, evading the void of the second strike that descended like a hammer where his shoulder had been a second before. A swift kick to the second attacker's knee—a sickening crack echoed—then he swung his sword in a tight arc to slit the man's throat before his scream of pain could form. The third tried to flee, but Raymond's blade reached the back of his neck before his foot touched the ground.
Seconds. No more.
The three bodies lay still, adorning the black earth with gleaming crimson pools. Raymond stood, his chest heaving as if pushing the world away from him. A faint tremor ran through his right arm. It was not a tremor of fear but of a terrible certainty—the certainty that this blood was merely the first rain before the flood.
Palace Courtyard – Preparing for the Siege
He ran toward the palace, his shadow stretching behind him like a long scar upon the earth. As he neared the front courtyard, the sight that greeted him stole his breath. Chaos was slowly, lethally organizing itself. The palace guards, in their armor engraved with the dark blue dragon emblem, moved like ants under the threat of a stick. Hoarse commands from Earl Yukron Windsword, the screech of ammunition carts, the smell of heated sword oil and the fear of men—all mingled in the night air to create the foul perfume of war.
He stood in the middle of the courtyard, by the dry stone fountain that had now become a temporary platform. He breathed deeply, trying to suppress the sound threatening to escape his throat. The guards saw him; some pointed, others stared with instinctive suspicion. He remained silent, his ashen eyes scanning the horizon, waiting. He knew. He felt them as skin feels the storm before it breaks.
Then… they came.
They did not arrive as a single wave, but like a black fog creeping from between the trees. Dozens of shadows, their steps heavy and synchronized, creating a low, earthly rumble. There were no war cries; their silence was the most terrifying thing. Beneath their closed helmets, only emptiness could be seen.
The first of them stepped forward, the largest, carrying his massive axe as if it were a toy. He swung it sideways toward Raymond in a sweeping blow meant to cleave him in two.
Raymond, To himself: "Slow. Heavy… stupid."
He avoided the blow not by jumping, but by bending low like a snake. The axe whistled over his head. In the same motion, his sword shot forward not as a thrust, but like a viper's strike, burying itself in the gap between the chest and abdominal plates of the attacker's armor. Metal screamed against metal. Another man lunged from the left. Raymond pulled his sword from the first corpse and pivoted on his heel, his blade clashing with the opponent's sword, sparking a small orange flare in the darkness. He pushed with all his might; the man retreated a step. That was all the space he needed. A side kick to the knee—a dislocating crack echoed—then a final, silent sword strike.
He moved like a devil in a human body. Every strike calculated, every step economical. He parried, attacked, retreated, breathing in the moments between life and death. Blood—their blood—splattered his face, filling his mouth with the taste of copper and salt. But the numbers were overwhelming. He began to tire. The muscles in his back screamed; his breaths grew shorter. A step back, then another. They were encircling him.
Until…
The enemy line suddenly parted like the sea.
A voice like the roar of a storm cut through the battle's din.
Earl Nicholas Sparoff: "For the Crown! For Nerossia!"
It was Earl Nicholas, his full military armor gleaming as if it had consumed the moonlight, his scarred face beneath his open helmet a tempest of old anger. Beside him, Felix, his son, with his flying golden hair and blazing blue eyes, shouted unintelligible words, his sword moving like lightning. Behind them, twenty of the finest fighters from Houses Windsword and Sparoff, hardened mountain men, surged into the battle like a tide of lava and iron.
The effect was devastating. The enemy ranks, once cohesive, collapsed from the side like shattered glass. Nicholas himself turned every blow into a slaughter, his heavy axe crushing bone and armor like wood. Felix, with the agility of a fox, weaved between legs to sever tendons and necks from below.
Raymond's gaze met the old Earl's for a moment. No words were exchanged. Just a slight nod from Nicholas—a nod of the respect one warrior grants another—before they returned to the fray. The fight was different now. Hope, that rare bird, began to flap its blood-stained wings over the palace courtyard.
Deep in the Forest – Stronghold of the First Battalion
Far away, in the heart of the forest where giant oak trees formed a canopy blocking the sky, another hell was opening its gates. Here, there was no battlefield, only a narrow slaughterhouse, a forest of swords and screams.
Aqua Nightover was a ghost in a sea of dark shadows. His sword—"Firesong," inherited from his uncle—emitted faint red flickers with every movement, as if it were cutting not only flesh and blood but also the very cold of the night. His movements were inhuman, terrifying in their precision and economy. He dodged a spear thrust with a backward bend, and in the moment he was upside down, his blade traced an arc to slit the throat of an attacker coming from behind. The man fell, roaring, and Aqua returned to his stance without losing balance. He was not fighting; he was reaping souls like a harvester in a ripe field.
Meters away, Ser Darren Castro represented the other side of the coin: pure, brute force. He was like a moving rock, his scarred armor deflecting blows while his longsword—"Blood-Oath"—sought victims. He saw an enemy commander trying to rally his men. Darren roared and charged him. The commander turned quickly, swinging his heavy sword toward Darren's head. The latter avoided it not by retreating, but by stepping forward, driving his shoulder into the man's chest, throwing him off balance.
In that moment, Darren's sword plunged into his chest to the hilt. But another man seized the opening, striking Darren's left shoulder with his axe. The armor deflected most of the blow, but Darren felt a sharp stab of pain. He turned with blind rage, grabbed the man by the collar of his armor, yanked him close, and drove his shortsword up under the helmet.
Fires were spreading. Fallen torches ignited tents and supplies. Thick black smoke mixed with the steam of blood and sweat, creating a nightmarish fog that made the fighting nearly blind.
Aqua paused for a moment, wiping blood—not his own—from his icy eyes. His breathing was steady, cold. Then… he saw.
On the ground, tossed among other corpses, was Laiv. The young archer. A longsword—a heavy knight's blade—had pierced his small chest from the front, puncturing the simple leather armor he wore. His green eyes, which had been blazing with focus hours before, were now wide open, staring into the meaningless darkness of the sky. On his lips remained a trace of the shock of a quick death.
Aqua's hand did not tremble. His eyes did not tear up. Only something inside his chest—something that had been warm for a moment—hardened and turned to ice. He closed his eyes for one long second, exhaling a sigh harsher than any scream. This was the price. Then he opened his eyes. The blue in them had become deeper, harder, and emptier. He walked away from the body, heading toward where Darren was shouting orders to any of his men still alive.
Skyrok Palace – Inside Earl Yukron's Chamber
Within the thick stone walls of the chamber, the air was so heavy it felt almost visible. The smell of old wax, dust, and sweat-soaked fear filled the space. King Irvin stood hunched over the map table, his bony fingers tracing the lines and symbols as if reading an incantation to save his own life.
Irvin, His voice was hoarse, weary, yet steely: "One hundred and fifty. The number doesn't lie. But it doesn't tell you that each one of them is worth ten of those vermin."
He raised his head, his sunken eyes—almost red from exhaustion—sweeping over the faces around him.
Yukron Windsord, He slammed his fist on the table, creating a thunderous sound that made the candles dance: "It's honor, Your Majesty! Not an empty slogan! It's that thing that makes you refuse death even when it's the easiest choice!" His jowls trembled, and the veins in his neck stood out like ropes.
Blatir Vanheim, smiled, a single, short, dry laugh, like the sound of a crow. "Honor will be a thin blanket to cover our cold corpses."
The glances exchanged were like swords in the dark. Even Earl Veryon Rosefeld, who had been observing coolly from his corner, could not remain silent.
Feryon, In a sharp, bored tone: "You've bored us with honor and shame. The plan. I want to hear the plan that will make this imagined honor of ours last until sunrise."
Everyone turned to Duke Lucas Nightover. He was standing slightly apart, by the window, his back to the room, as if speaking to the night. When he turned, his face was pale, but his eyes… his eyes held that fearsome, icy depth, the depth of the "Frozen Eye." He didn't need to say he had communicated with Aqua; everyone saw it.
Lucas, His voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a blade: "The plan isn't to endure. The plan is to win."
He approached the table, his long, pale fingers placed on the map, on a southern point.
Lucas: "They think we're besieged, frightened, waiting for death or rescue. That is their fatal mistake."
His gaze met Irvin's.
Lucas: "We will not wait for them here. We will go to them."
A stunned silence.
Atris, Astonished: "You suggest… we abandon the castle's defense? Go out into the forest? That's suicide!"
Lucas, Shook his head slowly: "No. We will leave a shadow of our force here, enough to make some noise, to make it seem like we are all present. But the main force…" He pressed his finger onto the map, on a high hill south of the forest: "...we will crawl like snakes under the cover of night. They are focused on the siege, on breaching our walls. They will not expect a counter-attack from deep within their own territory."
The plan began to unfold—bold, insane, and thrilling. It held immense risk, but with it came the first real glimmer of hope.
Irvin, A long silence, his gaze shifting from Lucas to the map and then to the faces of his commanders: "...It's madness."
He looked at Lucas.
Irvin: "And you are sure of… the source of this information? That their command is there?"
Lucas did not answer with words. He just looked at the King with a long, heavy gaze. In his eyes, Irvin saw a reflection of blue ice… Irvin closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
Irvin, His voice was resonant, filled with a fateful decision: "So be it. To the southern hill. May Nerossia lose or win tonight."
They filed out of the room, each carrying the decision of their death or their glory within their ribs. The night awaited outside the door, deeper and darker than ever before.
The March Toward Fate
Half an hour later, deep within the southern forest, the main force—led by Irvin himself, along with Lucas, Yukron, and others—crept like phantoms among the tall ferns and black rocks. The darkness was nearly absolute, and the only thing guiding them was that faint blue glow in Lucas's eyes as he walked at the forefront, like a demonic beacon.
The only sounds were the rustling of leaves underfoot and the sound of suppressed breathing. The smell of sweat and fear traveled with them. Even Blatir, who walked near the front, was silent, his stern features expressing a forced respect for this insane gamble.
Then… they arrived.
The trees suddenly parted, revealing a sight that froze the blood in their veins.
On the opposite hill, under the full moonlight that now seemed like a complicit witness, stood the army.
It was not merely a group of men. It was a living mass of darkness and iron. Grim rows of warriors in gleaming black breastplates, their helmets sealed, their swords and spears forming a slanted metallic forest. In their midst, on a slightly raised platform, stood their commanders. They weren't speaking; they weren't moving. They were just… waiting. Like a giant statue of fate.
They knew they were coming.
Irvin and his men stood at the forest's edge, staring at that terrifying and epic scene. The air stopped moving. The silence was deeper than any silence the world had ever known.
Irvin Luskarth raised his sword.
It was not the movement of a crowned king rallying his troops, but a visible struggle, a silent agony that shook those who saw it. His arm, which had once borne his sword "Soul" as an extension of his will, now trembled under the mere weight of the metal. The atrophied muscles beneath his lavish royal robes tensed like overstrained cords, and cold sweat beaded on his pale brow despite the night's chill. The faint creaking of joints, a sound heard only by him and the harsh fate perched on his shoulders, seemed as loud as a scream in that overwhelming silence. Every inch he raised the sword was a victory over a body that had betrayed him, over an illness that had consumed what strength remained, leaving behind an empty shell lifting a symbol it could no longer bear.
Duke Lucas Nightover cast a glance at him. It wasn't the look of a comrade or an ally, but that of a deputy seeing his king lifting a burden that would kill him. His narrowed eyes, accustomed to seeing beyond veils, caught the slight tremor in Irvin's wrist, the brief pallor that washed over his face. Lucas exhaled a deep, silent sigh, carrying within it the weight of years of secret knowledge, and perhaps a touch of silent reproach toward Irvin for his suicidal insistence. He knew that every drop of sweat on the king's brow was a drop from his remaining life.
A few meters away, Duke Blatir Vanheim did not sigh. His stern expression did not change. But his sharp eyes, like a file's blade, caught everything: the tremor, the pallor, the effort it cost Irvin to perform the simplest act. Blatir's eyes showed no pity, only cold disdain mixed with morbid curiosity. He watched, like a spectator at a play, a king performing the role of strength while crumbling from within. A cold, merciless smile flickered in the depths of his gaze, as if he saw in Irvin's weakness a confirmation of all he believed… He was watching not a king, but a walking corpse raising a sword.
On the edge of the southern forest, where the giant oak trees ended and the open killing field began, King Irvin Luskarth's battalion lined up. They were not a neat military formation, but a ragged human wall, carved from exhaustion and determination. Their weary breaths rose into the cold air like phantoms preparing to depart. They looked toward the opposite hill, where the army of darkness stood arrayed as a single, cohesive, silent, and terrifyingly complete mass. The cold moonlight spilled onto their metallic breastplates, transforming them into faceless, merciless steel creatures.
The silence was heavy, eerie, broken only by the nervous whinny of a horse from the enemy ranks and the clang of metal on metal. Then, suddenly, this silence was shattered.
From the west, from the deep shadows of the pine trees, a new sound emerged. It wasn't the sound of heavy footsteps, but a different rumble, closer to a suppressed roar. They appeared like ghost horses, riders astride mounts black as tar, their armor scarred and mud-caked, their faces savage from battle. It was Ser Darren's battalion. They were no more than thirty knights, but their presence was like an iron fist thrown onto the gambling table. They halted on the right flank of Irvin's battalion, completing the scene, transforming the wall of despair into a crescent of steel.
Astride a massive black horse, larger than the others, sat Ser Darren Castro. His helmet was split at the side, and dried blood stained his armor. His breath rose like smoke from the helmet's visor. Beside him, on a slightly smaller horse, was Aqua Nightover. His white hair, matted with blood and dirt, gleamed palely under the moon like a broken crown. His icy blue eyes stared at the enemy commanders on the hill, holding not anger, but a deadly coldness, as if looking at numbers on a board, not souls.
It was not the look of strength fulfilled, but of fate fulfilled.
On the opposite hill, within the dense enemy ranks, a slight disturbance occurred. A huge horse adorned with black and red ribbons took a few steps forward. Upon it sat Earl Aldric Fornex. Even from this distance, his rage was clear as a bark. His gauntleted fist on the reins was so tight the horse whinnied in pain. His face, beneath the open helmet, was flushed, and his eyes burned with a red fire of insult and fury. He had been humiliated. His First Battalion, the one he had sent himself, had been crushed and torn apart by this rabble of "rebels."
A quick glance to his right, toward the taller, calmer shadow where Marquess Kalibros Santura sat motionless on his horse, like a statue of basalt. No words were exchanged, but Santura's silent contempt, radiating from every line of his still body, was harsher than any slap. His message was clear: "This is the fruit of your recklessness."
This silent exchange did not escape the sharp eyes on the other side.
Aqua, whispered, in his hollow voice that had lost all human warmth: "Look at them. The serpents bite each other even in their own den."
Darren, his voice rough from under his helmet, carrying the weariness of a thousand battles: "Let them. Blind anger makes blind mistakes."
But among the ranks of Irvin's and Darren's men, there was no room for cold analysis. The tension was palpable, like a cloud of electricity before a storm. It wasn't just the fear of death, but the fear of failure. The fear that the sacrifice would be meaningless.
A young soldier at the front of Irvin's line, no older than eighteen, gripped the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles turned white. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Beside him, the one-eyed veteran fighter, Ser Edward Vanaedom, his face weathered by time like ancient tree bark, placed a heavy, calloused hand on the youth's shoulder, transferring the silence of experience and the strength of past wars. He said nothing. Just a look, containing all acceptance and farewell. The young man swallowed dryly, stopped shaking, and raised his chin. He was ready.
A knight from Darren's cavalry muttered softly under his breath, reciting an old prayer against a violent death. His right hand touched a metal talisman on his hip beneath his armor.
Another stared at his sword as if seeing the faces of his loved ones reflected on the polished blade.
This was the longest moment in history. The moment before the abyss. The moment when a man lets go of everything and becomes merely an instrument of fate.
At the forefront, King Irvin raised his sword high. The metal, adorned with gold and jewels, did not shine with a royal brilliance, but absorbed the moonlight and released it like a pale flame of will. His face was carved from steel and sorrow. He uttered no speech. There was no need. His silence was louder than any scream.
On the opposite hill, Marquess Kalibros Santura responded. He did not raise a sword, but merely lifted his right gauntlet. A simple, superior motion… that was the signal.
The world exploded.
It wasn't a single war cry, but a massive, insane, deafening roar that erupted from nearly two hundred throats, merging with the roar of hundreds of throats from the other side. There was no more tension, no fear, no hesitation. Only that blind, primal impulse forward.
They charged. Not as two armies, but as two raging waves of flesh, iron, and fury, hurtling toward each other in a collision destined to shake the very foundations of the world.
And the night, an eternal witness, did not stir.
Only half an hour had passed… and the battle was a living entity with wings of clashing steel and death screams.
A blind human wave of Evalen soldiers, in their dull black armor and sealed helmets that reflected only emptiness, crashed against the Arcadian wall formed of shields and chests bearing the sigils of the great houses.
The first impact made a sound like thunder, shaking the ground beneath their feet. It wasn't fighting; it was a brutal shoving match, where bodies ground against each other in a confined space of dirt and blood.
The blood didn't drip; it sprayed into the air like a heavy crimson mist, coloring the fighters' faces, making their grips slippery on sword hilts. The ground beneath them turned into a warm, sticky mire, a mixture of crystalline soil and spilled life-water. The Arcadian wall, which had started solid, began to waver. Strangled warning cries, death groans, and the clang of metals mixed into a horrifying, chaotic symphony. A breach here, where a treacherous sword found its way between armor plates to stab a man in the neck, and he fell silently, eyes wide open to an unforgiving sky. A breach there, where a long spear pierced the eye socket of a man shouting orders, turning his scream into a silent bubble of blood. The wall was collapsing, bit by bit, like a heart failing under the weight of losses.
In the heart of this chaos, astride his fear-whinnying horse, was King Irvin Luskarth. His pale face, etched with grey shadows by illness, was strained with immense effort. His voice, once capable of leading armies, was now hoarse, broken, screaming orders lost in the battle's din.
Irvin: "The left flank! Fall back! Reform! You scoundrels, listen to me!"
But his cries were like screams in a dream. From afar, across a moving wall of flesh and iron, Duke Lucas Nightover, who along with Earl Yukron was trapped within a ring of swords, tried to reply. Lucas's face was smeared with blood, but his eyes still held that sharp, icy gleam.
Lucas, shouting, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife: "Irvin! Get back! It's a trap! They want you!"
But before the words could reach him, it happened.
One of the front lines completely collapsed. It wasn't a retreat; it was a total breakdown, like a dam bursting under water pressure. A wave of panicked Arcadian knights and soldiers, driven by the terror of death, fell back in blind disorder. One of them, a young soldier who had lost his helmet, his eyes wide with terror, crashed hard into Irvin's horse. The noble animal whinnied a sharp cry full of pain and panic, rearing up on its hind legs.
For Irvin, the world spun.
He fell from the saddle like a sack of bones. The impact with the ground was horrific, shaking every bone in his frail body. His head hit a mud-covered rock, and he saw stars exploding behind his eyelids. Sound vanished. All he heard was a high-pitched ringing, like a beehive inside his skull. His vision became blurry, distorted, shapes moving like shadows underwater. He tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to fill. He was choking, seeing feet and hooves rushing toward him, as if about to be trampled to death.
Like a saving shadow from another world, the bloody chaos parted to reveal Aqua Nightover. His black sword, Firesong, parried a deadly swing from a war axe aimed at the head of the prostrate King Irvin. The clang of metal on metal was sharp as a final warning cry. But parrying the blow wasn't enough. The human wave of enemy soldiers, seeing their royal prey just steps away, still surged forward like a hungry flood.
And before Aqua could deal with the new threat, the ranks parted again, not with grace, but with earth-shaking violence.
Ser Darren Castro appeared.
He didn't emerge from nowhere; he exploded from the heart of the fray like an angry force of nature. His armor was mangled, with deep dents and a long crack on the breastplate, covered in a thick layer of dried blood and mud, making him look like an angry mud creature born from the earth's belly. His helmet was long gone, revealing his scarred, bearded face, distorted by pure rage and exhaustion beyond exhaustion.
He didn't shout orders. His roar was an animalistic grunt from the depths of his chest. He stepped forward, not as a commander, but as a moving wall. He placed himself between the King and the oncoming flood. His longsword, Blood-Splitter, no longer gleamed; it was a blunt tool for smashing. He struck with it not to stab, but to break and push. A shoulder charge knocked a knight from his horse. A punch with the sword's hilt shattered a soldier's helmet and felled him.
Darren: "To me! To me, you bastards! In front of me!" he bellowed, his voice gravelly like distant thunder, but it cut through the battle noise.
A few loyal, torn-but-living royal guards responded to his call. They gathered around him, forming a focal point, a rock in the river diverting the current. Darren was the core of that rock. Every blow he directed, every kick he delivered, was a message: no more retreat. This line is the end of the world.
He protected the King not just by killing, but by absorbing blows. His armor deflected strikes that would have killed any other man. He absorbed the immense energy of the directed assault, transforming it into another roar, another strike. He represented protection in its purest form: violent, unyielding, and ready to shatter for what it guarded.
On the rear right flank, where the fighting was less dense but no less fierce, Dame Barbara Starkov and Marchioness Atris Starkov formed a deadly duo amidst the chaos.
Barbara did not fight like the heavy knights; she danced with the agility of a killer fox. Her light, reinforced leather armor allowed her to move where others stumbled. She didn't strike with brute force, but with intelligence. Her slender sword "Shiny", sought out weaknesses: a gap under the armpit, an unprotected knee joint, the narrow space between helmet and gorget. She moved, struck, and retreated with quick steps, leaving behind enemies limping or bleeding from painful wounds that weakened them before killing them. Her breath was even, but her blue eyes were wide, absorbing every detail, every movement, every potential threat toward her and the mother she followed.
Marchioness Atris Starkov, however, was the complete opposite. She was like a disciplined cyclone. She stood before her daughter, not as a passive shield, but as an offensive sword clearing the path. Her broadsword "Lunar", was a tool of final separation. Her strikes were economical, direct, and lethal. She didn't just thrust at necks; she shattered collarbones to disable arms, or struck hard on helmets to rattle skulls and throw enemies off balance, making them easy prey for her daughter or a finishing blow from herself. Her cold, large eyes scanned the field not for danger, but for the next target. She led her daughter not toward safety, but *through* the danger, turning their path into one of corpses.
Atris, her voice quiet yet cutting through the combat noise, directing her daughter without looking at her: "Left. The man with the limp. Finish him."
Barbara, moving instantly, her blade slipping out to stab the indicated man in his unprotected thigh, dragging him down: "Done."
No more was needed. They were a single machine with two parts: the mother, the directed force and finishing blows that opened gaps. The daughter, the speed and precision that exploited and widened those gaps. They moved in eerie synchrony, protecting each other not by standing still, but by making the area around them devoid of any threat capable of standing. Their defense was the deadliest and most efficient offense.
In the heart of the battle, young Kyle clutched his spear with both hands, his knuckles white as if clinging to a lifeline in a raging sea. He saw nothing but the back of that knight, Edward Vanaedom, the man who had once instilled confidence in him, given him hope of being a soldier and not just a son afraid of death. His eyes were fixed on him as if he were a star in a pitch-black sky.
But in a single moment… the sky turned upside down.
He saw the blade gleam, then descend, and the knight's neck was severed like a flower violently plucked. Blood gushed forth in a crimson fountain, drenching the dirt and iron. The body that had been a fortress moments before was now just still flesh on the ground.
The young man froze, the air choking in his chest. He tried to scream, to breathe, but all that came out was a ragged gasp. And when the crowd pushed him backward, his feet slipped on something soft before he realized: he had stepped on his mentor's head. His whole body trembled, and he fell to his knees, his spear shaking between his trembling fingers.
Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with blood-soaked dirt.
Fate did not grant him a moment to mourn.
Before he could rise, before he could collect himself, steel lunged toward his body. A sword pierced his stomach cruelly, the screech of metal tearing his scream apart before it could complete. Pain ignited his belly with an unquenchable fire. He tried to push the sword away, but another spear embedded itself in his shoulder, tearing through it as if ripping the wing of a small bird.
Blood gushed from his mouth, hot, sticky, heavy. His eyes glazed over as they looked upon the faces of the enemy, finding not humans, but beasts laughing at his silent scream.
He fell, his body collapsing to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He could no longer hear anything but the slowing, fading beats of his own heart, while the enemy's footsteps rushed over him mercilessly. They climbed over his corpse as if his body were a small bridge leading them further into the fight.
In his final glance, he saw the sky. Gray, cold, offering no answers.
And he knew… that the hope the knight had placed in his heart had died with him.
On the left flank of the vanguard, the trapped duo lay in wait.
They were an island of steel and despair in a sea of hostile blades. Duke Lucas Nightover and Earl Yukron Windsword, back to back, turned in an endless circle of death. Yukron's heavy breaths, like the bellow of a wounded bull, mingled with Lucas's quieter, colder ones—the sound of ice sliding across stone. The blood—and brains—of others sprayed with every fortunate strike that landed against a nearby helm. The ground beneath their boots was slick, a mixture of mud and the entrails of those whose armor had been split open.
There were no words of encouragement here, only muttered warnings.
Lucas, in a muffled tone as he deflected a spear with a subtle parry: "Your right. Low."
Yukron, tearing open the attacker's throat before Lucas's warning was complete: "I know!"
But the circle was tightening. Fatigue weighed heavy on their arms. They knew something had to be done—or they would collapse beneath the sheer press of numbers.
Then, the moment came.
Without warning, Yukron let out a roar that did not come from his throat but from the depths of his rage-eroded soul. It was not a battle cry, but the sound of an internal explosion.
He surged forward not as a knight, but as a giant human spearhead. He abandoned all defense, all cunning. He relied only on brute force and blind fury. His heavy sword, "Windbreaker", swept in a devastating arc—shattering shields, breaking bones, splitting bodies open. He paid for every foot of ground gained with a fresh wound ripped into his arm or shoulder, but he did not slow. He carved a tunnel through flesh and steel.
Lucas, with complete composure, followed as his shadow. While Yukron was the rampaging, destructive mass, Lucas was the venomous needle. His sword, "Phantom", which seemed to gleam with a faint blue light even in the darkness, moved with chilling economy. Every thrust found a man about to strike Yukron's back, or one seeking to exploit the gaps in his reckless fury. He guarded Yukron's flanks, killing without sound, without rage, only with that absolute precision that made death appear like a routine task.
A pause. They had broken through the ranks. They found themselves in a temporary gap, a dead eye in the storm.
Yukron stood bent over, hands on his knees. His breathing came in harsh gasps, dragged from his chest as if by hooks. Blood streamed from half a dozen wounds on his arms and shoulders, staining his silver armor scarlet. He was on the verge of collapse.
Then, he felt a touch.
Not a touch of aid, but of command. Lucas placed his cold, leather-gloved hand on Yukron's battered shoulder. There was no comfort in it—only iron will. He spoke no word. Just pressure. And a look.
Yukron met Lucas's eyes. He saw not pity, but timing. Understanding came instantly. Yukron nodded, swallowed the blood pooling in his throat, turned, and set his back against Lucas's once more. This time, he was the shield.
Now, it was Lucas's turn.
He advanced. His movement was different from Yukron's. It was not a charge, but a steady, unstoppable push. His sword was no longer merely a weapon; it was a needle in a vast loom, weaving a tapestry of death. He moved in short, swift steps, his body swaying inches away from incoming blows. Every thrust was fatal. He stabbed one man in the throat, drew the blade back in the same motion to drive it into the eye of the man behind. A kick to divert a shield, followed by a swift strike beneath the armpit. He was not attacking—he was guiding his sword through human obstacles as water flows through stone. His walk was the embodiment of combat. And the path he left behind was paved with corpses, their faces frozen in startled disbelief, never understanding how they had died.
Until he stopped.
No ordinary men stood before him now.
There stood Marquess Kalibrus Santura. He was not posed in some theatrical stance, but simply standing, as though he had been waiting. His black armor bore only the faintest scratches. His longsword, slightly curved at the tip, rested on his shoulder, its edge marked with only a few small stains of blood. The helmet concealed most of his face, but what was visible—the tight, straight mouth, the strong jaw—betrayed no expression.
Their gazes met.
The sound of Lucas's breath, steady yet deep, was the only noise that broke the temporary silence between them. Santura's breath—if he drew any—was inaudible.
There were no words of challenge, no curses. Only a silent acknowledgment. This was the end. This was the moment.
Then, as though in perfect accord, they moved in the same instant. It was not the beginning of a battle, but the beginning of the end.