The knock came at dawn, sharp and frantic.
Adrian Blackthorn stirred in the corridor, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The manor doors opened with a groan, and a figure stumbled inside.
The man's cloak was ragged, his boots torn, his face pale beneath streaks of soot. Behind him, his horse collapsed in the yard, lathered and steaming, sides heaving as though it had outrun death itself.
"My lord!" the man rasped, falling to his knees. Soldiers caught him before he struck the stone floor. His chest heaved; blood flecked his lips. "Demons… a host of them! Marching west — toward Harrowick Fief. They'll be here by nightfall if unchecked!"
The hall erupted in shouts. Servants froze with bowls and jugs still in their hands. Elara Blackthorn pressed her fingers to her mouth. Adrian clutched the stair rail, his gray eyes narrowing.
So the tide comes at last.
Baron Dorian strode forward, not yet fully armored, his scarred face grave. He knelt beside the messenger. "How many?"
"Hundreds," the man whispered hoarsely. "Three warbands… no, more. They march under one banner. Fields burn already. Harrowick begs for aid — without Blackthorn steel, they will not last the night."
Dorian's jaw hardened. "Fetch water for this man. Then send for the captains."
The council gathered in the war chamber within moments. The long table was scarred by years of planning, maps weighted with stones. The messenger lay against the wall, tended by a healer, his voice spent.
Dorian planted his gauntleted hands on the map, eyes scanning the border. "If Harrowick falls, the eastern road lies open. The demons will march straight for us next."
One captain, old and weary-eyed, spoke first. "Then we should fortify Blackthorn. Harrowick is too far. By the time we arrive, it will already be ash."
Another slammed his fist. "Abandoning them condemns us all. If Harrowick burns, the demons grow bold. They will not stop at one fief."
"They will not stop at all," Dorian said, his voice like iron. He traced the line of the eastern road. "We march within the hour. Riders only — speed over numbers. If we can hold the line until dusk, the garrison from the south may reinforce."
Elara's voice cut through. She stood at the door, her green eyes fierce. "And if you fall, Dorian? If you ride too far and the demons split their force? They will come here, to our children."
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Adrian, small in the doorway, silent as stone.
Dorian met Elara's gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded once. "I will not leave Blackthorn bare. Half the men ride with me. Half hold the walls. That is final."
His eyes lingered on Adrian. "Stay with your mother. Watch, and remember."
Adrian bowed his head, the picture of obedience. Inside, Azrael's old voice whispered: I will do more than remember. I will learn.
The courtyard roared with movement. Horns blared across the frost-bitten fields, echoing like the cry of giants. Soldiers strapped on armor, cinched belts, and checked quivers. Horses stamped, their breath steaming in the cold. The Blackthorn banner — a green field with a thorned branch — snapped in the wind.
Adrian stood at the steps, his small fists clenched. His eyes darted, not with fear, but with calculation.
He saw a veteran calmly buckling his greaves, his face unreadable — discipline. He saw a recruit fumbling with his straps, panic twitching in his fingers — weakness. He heard a sergeant curse and steady him — leadership.
These are things demons never understood, Adrian thought. They ruled by terror. Humans bind themselves with duty. This is why they endure.
Elara's hand seized his shoulder. "Inside," she ordered. Her voice was sharp, but her hand trembled. "You will not see what's to come."
Adrian looked up at her, his expression softening into the obedience of a boy. He nodded. But as she pulled him away, his gaze lingered on the riders assembling in the yard.
At midday, the riders departed. Dorian led them at the front, his greatsword gleaming on his back, his scar catching the sun. The thunder of hooves shook the stones beneath Adrian's feet.
Elara stood at the gates, her hand clutched to her chest as she watched her husband vanish into the horizon. Adrian remained beside her, silent, his gray eyes unreadable.
The messenger's words still echoed in his head: Hundreds… under one banner…
The Blackthorn fief would not remain untouched.
The first true demon raid of Adrian's second life had begun.