The Next Morning, Ironwood Village.
The morning came with a strange silence. No rooster crowed. No child's laughter echoed through the air. Even the usual bark of the baker's dog was missing, replaced by a hush that felt too foreign to be coincidence.
Jules was already awake, standing near the well with his training blade strapped to his back. He scanned the treeline as the mist curled low across the fields.
_Something feels off_
He quickly turned at the sound of fast-approaching footsteps—one of the watchmen, breathless, his cloak half-fallen from his shoulder.
"They're here," the man gasped.
Jules didn't wait to ask who. He just ran.
By the time he reached the center of the village, the horns were already blowing—short bursts, urgent, scattered.
No one needed anyone to tell anyone it wasn't the call for drills.
With the alarm, the first arrow struck the thatched roof of a hut. Then came the second, then a dozen more.
Ironwood was under siege.
The first screams ripped through the air, cutting through the sound of the horns.
Jules ducked behind a stone wall as another arrow clattered nearby, splintering on the cobble beside him. Smoke was already curling from the eastern quarter, as someone had set the grain stores ablaze.
He looked up.
The villagers were scrambling. Some were trying to fight, and some were trying to flee. Children were herded toward the sanctuary hall by elders with shaking hands. Farmers with crooked hoes joined the perimeter as several commands bellowed in air.
He scanned the rooftops, looking for one figure.
"Father!" he shouted.
There was no answer.
Then, a scream. Closer. He turned to see one of the young trainees, who was barely ten, cornered by a masked raider with twin blades drawn.
Even despite the bravery displayed by the boy, his hands couldn't hide the fear in his heart.
Witnessing such a scene, Jules did not think before springing straight into action.
Blade drawn mid-stride, he slammed into the attacker, throwing them both into the dirt.
Quickly, the raider reasserted his stance, back on his feet before Jules could blink—but Jules swung before he had time to strike.
The wooden blade cracked against the raider's shoulder, then again against a side of his head.
Instantly, he collapsed.
Jules stood over him, his gaze temporarily setting on the assailant before turning towards the boy.
Seeing the figure dead, the boy finally let his blade to the ground, his figure trembling.
"It's ok." Jules said as he parted him.
"Follow the western arch through the community garden. That should be the safest route to the village hall. Stay there, and Nana will keep you safe."
The boy cleaned his tears, his eyes tightening in gratitude. He nodded slightly at Jules before holstering his
Jules stared at his hands. His first real strike. His first bloodless kill. The first moment he realized: he hadn't even hesitated.
And then—the sound he'd been waiting for.
A voice, deep and familiar, bellowing over the chaos:
"Hold the line! To the western flank!"
Arvi's blade sang through the air, cutting down a raider mid-sprint before pivoting smoothly into a defensive stance.
His movement didn't occupy much space. He didn't grunt or shout. He struck like someone who had done it too many times to count, a man with no time for theatrics, only precision.
"Pull the wounded back to the well! Fan out to the east gate—don't let them breach it!" he commanded.
The smoke was thicker now. Some huts were already lost. Others were burning with villagers still struggling inside.
He turned to see a cluster of defenders overwhelmed near the blacksmith's forge.
Four villagers surrounded by twice that number.
Arvi moved without hesitation.
He met the first raider with a downward cleave that split sword from hand, then stepped through the gap, cutting left, then right.
The third attacker turned to run but Arvi's dagger lodged itself onto the back of his head before he could move far enough.
Not sparing the knocked figure any sympathy, he turned towards a certain area, "We need to move fast!" he barked at some who were assisting the wounded. "Send the children and aged to the sanctuary hall. Able men and women, regroup at the central square. If we lose that, we lose the village!"
As he turned, he caught sight of movement through the smoke—a familiar silhouette running toward him.
Jules.
His eyes were wide but focused.
"Good that you're here," Arvi muttered with something close to a smile.
Jules reached him with his breaths ragged. "I asked the others to fall back—"
"I know," Arvi said, cutting him off. "Now help me hold the square."
More raiders poured in from the south now, shadows moving like wolves in smoke.
And behind them, a different of fighters came to sight.
On sighting them, Arvi's eyes constricted into slits.
Immediately, Jules fell in beside his father, shoulder to shoulder.
He didn't speak, nor was there a need to. The way Arvi glanced just once at him said enough.
More raiders broke through the hazy smoke, but these weren't the scattered, desperate kind.
They moved with coordination. With discipline. One of them shouted in a tongue Jules didn't understand, and three others flanked toward the southern path.
"The Oros," Arvi muttered.
Jules scanned through them, and despite not knowing their origins, he knew these weren't your normal bandits.
Emerging from behind the smoke, a figure came to light—a tall, lean figure clad in dark, segmented armor unlike the rest. His helm was sleek, silver-lined, with a narrow eye-slit glowing faintly red. He didn't carry himself like a raider.
He walked like a man on a mission.
Jules stepped forward, but Arvi held out a hand.
"That one's mine."
"Father—"
"No."
Arvi took a breath, grounding his stance. "If I fall here… protect the villagers. Do what I told you."
Jules clenched his jaw. "Then don't fall."
But Arvi was already walking.
The armored figure stopped as if in recognition.
"Old Blade of Van," he said, his voice cold metallic. "Still standing after all these years."
Arvi didn't respond. He just drew his sword in a fluid arc.
"Oh, what a way to greet an old friend," he said with a mock-angry expression.
However, Arvi stood with his posture unchanged, the hilt of his sword pointed directly towards the man.
"You leave me with no choice then. I had hoped for a spar of good gesture, but with that look you have on, I can only aim to draw blood. You're sure to forgive me old friend right?"
With that, he burst into instant speed. Within seconds, he closed the distance.
Steel against steel, the shockwave sacttering dust and debris across. Arvi moved with grace of a seasoned swordsman—parry, sidestep, riposte—but the armored man's forte was speed.
Jules watched, frozen, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.
He wanted to run in. Wanted to help.
But he remembered.
"If anything happens… protect the people."
He turned, forcing himself to move.
Screams rose again from the western quarter.
And behind him, the sound of steel colliding in rhythm. Fast, sharp, brutal echoed like a drumbeat to his racing heartbeat.