The horn's deep bellow echoed through the burning courtyard of House Vaeron's manor, a sound that seemed to claw at the night itself. Elias Vaeron stood frozen, his small hands gripping the empty musket, its barrel cold and useless. The interface in his vision flared with urgent data: Unknown Forces: 30 infantry, 10 cavalry. Approaching from the west. Affiliation: Unknown. Threat Level: Critical. The flames from the stable roared higher, casting jagged shadows across the blood-streaked stones, where House Kaelar's riders clashed with the remnants of the crimson-cloaked commander's forces.
Elias's steel-gray eyes, flecked with amber, flicked between the pinned commander, Lady Seline Kaelar's spear at his throat, and Garrick, the retainer whose sword hung low but unsheathed, his loyalty marked as Questionable by the Dominion Interface. The commander's smirk, bloodied but defiant, hinted at knowledge Elias didn't have. Garrick's silence was a blade at his back. And now, new players were entering the game.
"Garrick," Elias said, his voice a low growl, carrying the weight of his past life as a battle-hardened commander. "Choose. Now."
Garrick's eyes darted to the commander, then to the horizon where the horn's echo lingered. His gaunt face was unreadable, but his fingers twitched on his sword's hilt. "You're a strange one, boy," he said, his voice rough. "But I swore to your father. I'm with you—until I ain't."
Elias's jaw tightened. Not good enough, but he had no time to press. The interface pinged: Leadership (Level 1): Rally allies to maintain cohesion. He turned to Seline, her silver armor glinting as she held her spear steady. "Lady Kaelar, we need to move. Those forces—friend or foe, they change everything."
Seline's eyes narrowed, her gaze flicking from Elias to the commander. "You're no ordinary child," she said, her voice sharp but curious. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because I'm the only one keeping this manor standing," Elias snapped, his tone cutting through the chaos. "Pin him, but don't kill him. We need answers."
Seline hesitated, then nodded, pressing her spear closer to the commander's throat. "Speak, dog. Who sent you? And who's coming?"
The commander coughed, blood flecking his lips, but his smirk didn't waver. "You'll see soon enough, Kaelar. And you, Vaeron whelp—you've started something you can't stop."
Elias ignored the taunt, his mind racing. The interface's map updated, showing the new forces approaching the western wall—too organized for bandits, too small for a full army. A scouting party, perhaps, or a rival lord's vanguard. He needed to know more, but the manor was a death trap, its walls crumbling, its defenders scattered. His eight remaining militia were holding the watchtower, but they wouldn't last against fresh troops.
"Mira," Elias said, turning to the servant girl, her arm still bleeding from the lance graze. "Get to the watchtower. Tell Toren to hold, but be ready to fall back to the inner keep. Go."
Mira's eyes burned with defiance, but she nodded, slipping into the shadows toward the tower. Elias faced Garrick. "You're with me. We scout the western approach. If they're hostile, we hit and run."
Garrick raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. "You're six, boy. You can barely hold that… thing." He gestured at the musket.
Elias's smirk was cold, a shadow of his old self. "Keep up, and you'll see what I can do."
They moved toward the western wall, keeping low as the battle in the courtyard raged. House Kaelar's riders were gaining ground, their disciplined strikes breaking the commander's cavalry. But the infantry was regrouping, their spears forming a tight line near the main gate. The interface updated: Enemy Morale: Stabilizing. House Kaelar Losses: 6 riders.
Elias's small body ached, his lungs burning with every step, but he pushed through. The western wall was a ruin, its stones cracked and moss-covered, offering little cover. He crouched behind a toppled statue, its carved face worn to anonymity. Garrick knelt beside him, his sword drawn, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the wall.
The horn sounded again, closer now. Shadows moved in the distance—figures on foot, their armor clinking softly. The interface tagged them: Affiliation: House Drayce. Status: Hostile (Suspected). Elias's heart sank. Another noble house. This wasn't a random raid; it was a coordinated strike to erase House Vaeron.
"House Drayce," Elias muttered, his mind pulling from the boy's fragmented memories. A neighboring barony, ambitious and ruthless, with a grudge against Vaeron's fading line. The commander's attack was no coincidence—Drayce was behind it.
Garrick's eyes narrowed. "You know them?"
"Enough," Elias said. "They want our land. Our name. Everything." He scanned the interface for options: Tactics (Level 1): Suggest diversion to delay enemy advance. A diversion. He had no gunpowder left, no flares, but the manor's decay was a weapon in itself.
He pointed to a leaning section of the western wall, its stones precarious. "Can you collapse that? Trap them on the approach?"
Garrick studied the wall, then nodded. "With a lever and some muscle, maybe. But it'll take time."
"Do it," Elias said. "I'll draw them in."
Garrick's gaze hardened Pitbull. "You're mad, boy."
"Mad's all we've got," Elias shot back. He sprinted toward a pile of debris near the wall, grabbing a broken spear shaft and a tattered banner—Vaeron's crest, a broken sword wreathed in flames. He waved it high, shouting into the night. "Drayce! You want Vaeron? Come take it!"
The shadows paused, then surged forward. The interface counted: House Drayce: 25 infantry, 8 cavalry. Engagement Imminent. Elias's heart pounded, but his mind was ice. He needed them close, bunched up, where the collapsing wall could do the most damage.
Garrick worked fast, jamming planks under the wall's weakest stones. Elias kept waving the banner, his voice raw but defiant. "Here I am! The last Vaeron! Come on!"
Arrows whistled past, one grazing his cheek, drawing blood. He didn't flinch. Pain was an old friend. The Drayce infantry charged, their shields raised, their boots crunching over the frost-covered ground. Elias held his ground, counting seconds. Five, four, three…
"Now!" he shouted.
Garrick heaved, the planks splintering as the wall groaned and collapsed. Stones tumbled in a deafening cascade, crushing the front ranks of Drayce's infantry. Screams filled the air, dust and blood mingling in the moonlight. The interface flashed: Enemy Losses: 10 infantry. Morale: Wavering.
Elias didn't celebrate. He grabbed Garrick, pulling him back toward the manor. "Move! They're not done!"
The surviving Drayce forces regrouped, their cavalry charging through the dust. Elias and Garrick reached the courtyard, where Seline Kaelar had the commander pinned, her spear still at his throat. Her riders were faltering, their numbers down to five. The interface warned: House Kaelar: Critical Condition.
"Seline!" Elias shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Drayce is here! We need to consolidate!"
She turned, her face grim but resolute. "You brought more enemies, boy?"
"They were coming anyway," Elias said, his tone sharp. "We hit them together, or we all die."
Seline's eyes searched his, then she nodded. "Kaelar! To the keep!" Her riders disengaged, falling back toward the manor's inner keep—a fortified hall, its walls thicker but still crumbling. Elias followed, Garrick at his side, the musket bouncing against his back.
Inside the keep, the air was heavy with the stench of mildew and fear. Toren and the remaining militia—six now—joined them, their faces gaunt but determined. Mira was there, her arm bandaged with a torn rag. "They're coming from the west," she said, her voice steady despite her pain.
"I know," Elias said, scanning the keep. It was defensible, barely—high walls, narrow windows, one main door. The interface highlighted: Defensive Position: Viable. Resources: Limited. He needed weapons, powder, time. The forge was too far, but the keep's armory might have something.
"Toren," Elias said, turning to the militia captain. "Check the armory. Anything—swords, bows, pitch. Now."
Toren nodded, sprinting toward a side chamber. Elias turned to Seline. "Your riders—can they hold the door?"
"For a time," she said, wiping blood from her spear. "But Drayce and that bastard's men will overwhelm us."
"Not if we outthink them," Elias said. His mind flashed to the musket's bayonet blueprint, still locked in the interface. If he could arm his people, even crudely, they might hold. But the commander's words echoed: You've started something you can't stop.
Toren returned, dragging a crate of rusted swords and a single crossbow. "This is it," he said, his voice grim. "No pitch, no arrows."
Elias's heart sank, but he nodded. "It'll do." He handed a sword to Mira, who took it with a determined nod. Garrick watched, his expression unreadable.
The interface pinged: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Improvised Barricade. Simple: wood, nails, anything to block the door. Elias pointed to the crate. "Break it down. Barricade the entrance. Now."
They worked fast, piling debris against the door. The sounds of battle grew closer—Drayce's forces clashing with the commander's remnants, the courtyard a chaos of steel and screams. Elias's mind raced, piecing together the bigger picture. Drayce wanted Vaeron's land, but the commander served someone else—someone higher. A lord? A king? He needed the commander alive.
The door shuddered, a battering ram slamming against it. Seline braced herself, her riders forming a line. Elias climbed a table, his small frame barely visible over the barricade. The interface flashed: Leadership (Level 1): Inspire allies to boost morale.
"Vaeron!" he shouted, his voice ringing with a commander's authority. "They want our home, our name, our blood. But we are not broken! Hold this line, and we'll burn them to ash!"
The militia roared, their fear giving way to defiance. Seline's eyes met his, a flicker of respect in her gaze. Even Garrick's lips twitched, though his sword remained ready.
The door cracked, splinters flying. Drayce's men poured through, their shields raised. Seline's riders met them, steel clashing in the confined space. Elias grabbed the crossbow, its single bolt heavy in his hands. He aimed at a Drayce officer, firing. The bolt struck true, dropping the man.
But more came, and the barricade buckled. The interface screamed: Defensive Position: Failing. Elias's eyes darted to the commander, still pinned by Seline's men. His smirk was gone, replaced by a calculating glint.
And then, from the shadows of the keep, a figure moved—a cloaked man, unnoticed until now, his dagger gleaming as he lunged toward Seline.