Kael's boots crunched lightly against the white earth of the training ground, each swing of his sword slicing through the cold air with a soft whoosh. The metal sang faintly, biting into the wind as if challenging it.
After the funerals, he had asked Lucas to teach him. Lucas gave him a single move—or rather, a single swing. "Swing till you get used to it," he had said. And that was what Kael had been doing for the last hour.
His shoulders ached, stiff and complaining, every muscle screaming for a reprieve. His gray cape was dusted in snow, the edges frozen stiff from the cold. He swung again, the metal singing faintly in protest, and muttered under his breath, Great, I feel like a snowman with a sword.
He paused, breathing hard, and let his gaze wander across the empty training ground. The silence pressed in, broken only by the scrape of steel against air and the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots.
He swung again. One more time. Just one more.
It helped him clear his mind. He hadn't imagined learning the sword would be just swinging at empty air, but he didn't complain. He needed every advantage he could get.
He remembered the first time he had held a sword, the awkwardness of his grip, the wild, uncontrolled movements, and swinging like a wild beast, doing almost no damage. The memory made him cringe, and he shook it off, returning to the rhythm of swings. One, two, three… over and over, until the cold bit through his gloves and the ache in his shoulders became almost familiar, a companion he could rely on.
At least it's quieter than funerals, he thought dryly, letting a faint smirk touch his lips before swinging again.
Kael was in the middle of a swing, the cold wind biting at his face, when the sound of hurried footsteps reached his ears. He paused mid-motion, turning to see a guard sprinting toward him, breath visible in the frosty air.
"Baron! You… you need to come quickly!" the guard said, voice tight with panic, words tumbling over each other. His gloved hands shook as he gripped the hilt of his sword, though it was clear he had no intent to fight—he was simply terrified.
Kael straightened, gray cape fluttering, and arched an eyebrow.
"Slow down. Speak clearly," Kael said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest.
The guard swallowed hard, eyes darting to the horizon behind him. "The… shadowfangs… they're coming, Baron. The scouts… just... reported back... they said to expect them to attack... tonight at the earliest."
A chill ran deeper than the winter wind. Kael's grip on his sword tightened. His swings had been practice, preparation… but now, practice was over.
It's starting, Kael chuckled, though the sound was hollow, almost bitter. His hand trembled as it closed around the hilt, the leather biting into his palm. He steadied it with effort, forcing the weakness into stillness.
He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. The funeral fires had barely gone out, and already the world demanded more blood.
"Lead the way," he said as he followed the guard.
When they reached the palisades, chaos was already in motion. Guards rushed along the packed earth behind the wall, hauling spears and shields to plug the weaker sections. Archers scrambled up the ladders into the two operational towers, snow shaking loose from the timbers as they took position.
The palisade itself creaked and groaned in the wind, a wall of sharpened logs hastily repaired after the last attack. Through the gaps, Kael could glimpse the forest beyond—dark shapes shifting between the trees, the shadows moving with an unnatural purpose.
The air was thick with urgency, but beneath it all was fear, sharp and silent.
He called out to the closest guard, "Take me to Sir Lucas."
The guard guided him quickly along the wall until Lucas came into view, barking orders at a knot of men trying to reinforce a weak corner. Snow clung to his shoulders, his voice hoarse but steady.
"Baron," Lucas acknowledged with a curt nod, sparing only a glance before turning back and shouting to his men. "Scouts keep your eyes open, as soon as they move, ring the bell."
Kael's eyes swept the wall. Some of the guards moved with grim determination, but others—fresh-faced boys pressed into service after the last attack—were pale, clutching weapons like lifelines. His chest tightened at the sight.
They look like conscripts in a war game, Kael thought bitterly. The thought was strange—war game?—but he shoved it aside before it could settle.
Lucas looked back at him as soon as he was done giving orders.
"What is the situation?" Kael asked.
"The scouts came back a few minutes ago and reported that the shadowfengs were headed to the village. Five minutes after they came, we saw the first beast in the treeline. They are preparing to attack." Lucas reported, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword.
"How much time do you think we have?"
"No more than ten minutes, there are sightings all over the east treeline now."
"Fuck," Kael cursed as he took in the news. He paused for a few moments. "Okay, carry on, get the men ready."
"Yes, Lord", Lucas bowed his head slightly and started giving orders to the guards.
Just perfect, the repairs are not done.... Fuck. One more day and the repairs would be done. Nothing is going at my pace.
Kael stood in front of the gate , looking at the guards getting ready for battle.
At least I managed to get my mana back while training with the sword. He kept clenching and unclenching the hilt at his hip, as if the motion alone could steady him.
Everything around him moved with frantic purpose. Villagers hauled arrows to the towers and spears to the gates. Guards checked their weapons and armor with hurried precision, while others scrambled to patch the weakest sections of the wall before night fell.
The forest answered with howls, faint at first, then rising in a steady, mounting chorus. Each cry felt deliberate, hungry, a promise that the night would soon be theirs.
Captain Rhys approached, stride purposeful, armor clinking softly against itself. "We're as ready as we can be, Lord," he reported. "Everything that can be done is done. Now… we wait."
Kael nodded, letting his gaze sweep over the busy palisades. Rhys' hands were steady, his voice even—he probably hid it better than anyone—but Kael could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the tightness around his jaw.
Waiting. The worst part, Kael thought, still unclenching and clenching the hilt of his sword. All we can do now is survive until they come… and hope my it's enough.
The first shadow moved between the trees like a stain on the snow, barely more than a ripple at the edge of Kael's vision. Then another. And another. The forest trembled with the quiet predation of dozens, unseen but unmistakably present.
A low growl rolled across the treeline, unsettling in its sheer weight, and the air seemed to thicken with it, carrying the metallic scent of anticipation—or was it blood? Kael tightened his grip on the sword, the leather biting into his palm. His gray cape swirled in the wind, brushing against the hastily repaired palisade.
The guards stiffened, their eyes straining toward the dark horizon. Some whispered quick prayers, others murmured to each other, clinging to routine as a thin shield against fear. Even Lucas' sharp eyes flicked nervously from shadow to shadow, though he kept barking orders, voice steady but tense.
Kael's chest rose and fell with careful breaths. He could feel the familiar hum of mana coursing beneath his skin, a quiet reassurance in the storm of nerves. Tonight, he would need every drop.
Then the first figures lunged from the treeline, black shapes crashing through the snow, and the village's quiet readiness erupted into chaos.