"Charge!" Torin roared, thrusting his sword toward the distant ranks of Aethel. His brow lifted, a cruel smile stretched across his face, and his gaze burned with unshakable malice.
His horse lunged forward, and his legion followed in a storm of hooves and steel. The soldiers of Aethel stormed to meet them, their voices rising in furious cries.
Torin let out a booming shout as his blade swept through the air. The nearest foe had no chance to defend before the steel carved into his chest.
Crimson sprayed in a grisly arc, spattering the earth with terror.
A general riding at his side handed him an arrow. Torin caught it effortlessly, spinning it once before sliding it into the bowstring. With a predator's focus, he narrowed his eyes on Eldric, ruler of Aethel, who was locked in savage combat among his men.
Eldric's sword pierced the ribs of a Vanilor warrior, splitting bone with a sickening crack. His head snapped up, and his eyes locked with Torin's. At that instant, Torin released the arrow, lips curling into a merciless grin.
The shaft struck true, but Eldric lifted his shield at the last moment. The arrow hammered into the metal, the force jolting his arm. Torin's eyes darkened, his concentration hardening like iron.
He hurled the bow back to his commander and let out a dreadful roar. Driving his horse into the fray, he hacked down any man who dared stand between him and Eldric.
Eldric's fury ignited as he spurred his own steed. Both kings surged forward. Their collision shook the ground, and their swords clashed with a violence that split the air.
Clang! Crashhh!
The battlefield narrowed until only their duel remained, steel ringing with relentless fury.
Not far off, a soldier gasped as his strike ripped through an enemy's belly. A head toppled to the dirt and rolled to a halt.
"The king has fallen!" he cried, his voice cracked with grief. The words spread like fire. Panic swept through the lines as men turned their horses to flee. Defeat was etched into their faces as they scattered, while their enemies pursued, each pounding hoofbeat echoing like a hymn of terror.
✦IN AETHEL✦
Far from the gates of the kingdom, Queen Charlotte, Eldric's beloved wife, saw the enemy approaching, dust rising beyond the hills as she stood upon the castle battlements.
She raced through the halls, breathless with urgency. Bursting into her sons' chamber, she found little Quinn playing with his toy soldier.
"Draven, Draven!" she called out for her first son as she swept ten-year-old Quinn into her arms, clutching him close.
"We have to go, my love," she whispered.
She led him into a hidden tunnel, known only to her, Eldric, and their children. The walls were damp and cold.
Quinn looked into the tunnel, trembling.
"Mother, I am scared."
"I know, sweetheart," she said, kneeling before him. "But you must be brave. You are strong, just like your father. I need you to run as fast as you can. Do not look back."
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she kissed his forehead. "Go, my love."
Quinn stood for a moment, tears in his eyes, stepping back slowly, his gaze never leaving her.
"Go!" she commanded, her voice shaky, trying to remain strong for him.
Quinn ran into the dark tunnel, the shadows swallowing his figure. Charlotte watched until he vanished, her shoulders trembling as she sobbed silently.
Torin and his warriors stormed through the gates of Aethel, their steeds charging with eyes glowing crimson, while the townsfolk scattered in terror, shrieking and fleeing for their lives.
His gaze swept across the kingdom until it settled on Ermac, his general and commander, who wore the smug confidence of a man certain that triumph already belonged to them. Behind him, one hundred and eighty elite soldiers stood in formation, flanked by fifty skilled archers.
Torin drew his blade with deliberate slowness, the metallic scrape cutting through the tense air like the toll of a warning bell.
"Lay this land to waste. Let every soul drown in their own blood," he thundered, his voice rolling deep and menacing, like a storm breaking across the horizon.
For a moment, silence gripped the streets of Aethel. Then came a thunderous cry from his army as they surged deeper into Aethel, butchering every man, violating the women before ending their lives, and cutting down the children without mercy. Flames devoured homes as entire families perished within, their screams lost to the inferno.
Torin dismounted with cold grace, standing tall and unshaken. His eyes swept from the gates of the royal castle to its highest spire, a sneer of disgust shadowing his face.
"Bring me the king's family," he commanded, pausing long enough for the tension to throb in the air like a drumbeat. "No one else leaves this place alive."
"Yes, my lord," Ermac answered, bowing low. He signaled with a tilt of his head, and the warriors at his back obeyed, surging into the castle as he followed close behind.
A piercing cry tore through the air, followed by the crash of shattered glass. "Please… please… no!" someone screamed, the sound splintering before it was abruptly cut short. Silence returned, and Torin's lips curled into a sly, satisfied smile.
He slid his sword back into its sheath, snapping his fingers twice. A soldier approached, carrying a rough leather satchel crafted from the hide of a slain beast.
"Mother!" Draven cried out in a horrific tone. His cry shattered the silence, jolting Charlotte to her feet. She followed the sound to the throne room.
She rushed inside, gathering the hem of her garment. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw her son pinned in the grip of Torin's soldiers.
"Draven," she whispered in terror, already sobbing, her eyes locked on him while her chest rose and fell in frantic breaths. Her gaze swept across the hall until it caught on a lifeless man sprawled on the ground, a sword lying beside his body. She rushed forward, bent down, and seized the weapon.
"Release my son!" she demanded, her voice quivering yet edged with fury, the first sparks of rage igniting beneath her strained composure. She broke into a run toward them.
A blade hissed through the air and buried itself deep into Charlotte's shoulder, just above her heart. It had been thrown with predatory accuracy, released mid-spin by Torin when he strode into the throne room, his very presence tightening the air with menace.
"Mother!" Draven cried, struggling against the crushing hold of Torin's guards, who pressed him down with their full weight.
Charlotte screamed when her knees buckled, the sword clattering from her grasp. With one hand braced against the floor, she clutched the dagger embedded in her flesh, groaning in agony while she wrenched it free.
A dry, mirthless chuckle slipped from Torin's lips, as if her pain were nothing more than a performance staged for his amusement. His eyes shifted toward Draven, who met his stare with burning defiance. Yet beneath that blaze, Torin saw more than fury. Beauty burned within Draven's defiance, fierce enough to hold him captive. For a moment he lingered, caught between cruel amusement and forbidden desire.
The moment slipped away. His expression hardened, ice swallowing the fleeting spark, and he turned back to Charlotte. She staggered upright, blood streaming between her fingers as her trembling hands pressed against the wound where she had torn the knife free.