Dawn broke clean and blue over Blackthorn, the kind of brittle winter sky that made even lies look honest.
The courtyard roared with life as Baron Dorian Blackthorn led his banners eastward. Hundreds of riders thundered under the thorned branch, armor flashing in the pale sun. Their hooves shook the ground, leaving the manor strangely hollow in their absence.
Inside, the messenger slept by the fire, wrapped in wool. Servants murmured of his bravery.
Adrian lingered in the stair's shadow. His gray eyes did not leave the man. The breathing was too steady. The trembling hands moved in rhythm, not weakness.
The blanket slipped. A seam glistened beneath the jaw, slick and wrong.
"Mother," Adrian said softly. "Step back."
Elara frowned. "Adrian? He's—"
The messenger's jaw unhinged.
Skin peeled away in strips. Black chitin gleamed. Red eyes lit. A blade of shadow hissed into being. The nearest guard's throat opened before he could cry out.
Screams tore through the hall.
Elara dragged a kitchen boy behind her. The impostor turned toward her—until Adrian stepped forward.
The blade slashed. Adrian's bare hands rose. Steel screeched against invisible force. Crimson sparks flickered along his arms.
The demon faltered.
"Behind me, Mother," Adrian said, voice far older than his years.
Two more demons burst through the side door. Guards scrambled, dying within breaths. One sword skittered across the stones. Adrian seized it.
At first, the blade glowed faint white, trembling like a weak flame. Then it bled scarlet—darker, hotter—until it blazed a violent crimson, thick and burning like blood on fire.
The impostor hissed. The others hesitated.
Adrian smirked. "Bleed."
The first lunged. Adrian's crimson blade sheared off its arm.
The second swung a hatchet of black aura. Crimson met it, shattering the weapon and splitting its throat.
The third leapt, jaws unhinged. Adrian slashed upward, crimson trailing fire, and its head rolled across the stones.
The hall fell silent.
Servants crouched behind overturned tables. Elara stood rigid, spear shaking in her hands. Adrian lowered his blade, crimson still glowing along its edge. His gray eyes flickered with that same bloody light.
"I'm Adrian Blackthorn," he said softly. "And I will protect this house."
Far to the east, Dorian and his army pressed hard down the road. Banners whipped in the cold wind, armor gleamed, and the ground thundered beneath the march.
But the air grew heavy. The smell struck them—smoke, ash, rot.
The captain at Dorian's side shifted uneasily. "My lord… this is too soon. Harrowick lies further yet."
The ridge crested. The valley below should have been fields leading into Harrowick. Instead it was charred black. Ash swirled on the wind. The fief was gone, already devoured by fire and silence.
"No…" a rider whispered. "We're too late."
"No," Dorian said grimly. His hand closed around the hilt of his greatsword. "We were deceived."
The fog shifted.
From the ruins and woods around the road, demons poured forth. Dozens. Then hundreds. Their black aura seeped into the air like poison, their eyes burning red in the haze.
Trumpets wailed—the sound not of men, but of beasts mocking war.
"Ambush!" cried a captain.
Dorian's jaw clenched. "Shields!" he roared. "Form up! Blackthorn holds!"
The army wheeled with discipline. Shields locked. Spears lowered. The thorned banner whipped above them.
The tide struck.
The clash was thunder and steel. Black aura slammed into white and iron. Men screamed, demons shrieked. The line bent, never broke.
Dorian was everywhere—his greatsword blazing faint white, cutting through black-armored fiends, his voice hammering commands into his men's hearts. "Hold! Hold the line!"
Blood churned the earth. For every demon felled, more pressed forward. This was no border raid. It was annihilation, and the Blackthorns had been led into it.
Still, they stood. Still, they roared defiance.
Back at the manor, the impostor demon bled out, crawling toward the gate. "Too late," it rasped. "Your baron is already dead."
Adrian strode forward, crimson aura seething along his sword. He pressed the blade to its chest. The glow flared once, and the demon went still.
Elara whispered, trembling. "Adrian… what are you?"
He turned, sweat dripping, eyes still faintly burning crimson. "Your son," he whispered. "And a Blackthorn."