Chapter 6 – Ashes of Harrowick
The battlefield stank of blood and smoke.
The demon general's corpse lay in two steaming halves, its black fire guttered into silence. Around it sprawled a graveyard of bodies — human and demon alike. The mud was soaked red, churned thick by boots and hooves, by the thrashing of the dying.
Baron Dorian Blackthorn leaned on his greatsword, emerald aura fading back to a steady white. Blood seeped through the rents in his armor, soaking his side, but his jaw was set like stone. If he faltered now, despair would sweep the ranks. And despair killed faster than any demon's blade.
"Count the living," he ordered, voice rough but steady.
Captains moved quickly, their shouts cutting through the groans of the wounded. Men dragged themselves into order, shields battered, armor dented. Of the proud host that had ridden out that morning, nearly a third lay dead in the mud, and another third could no longer stand.
The wall had held — but at a cost written in blood.
A young knight limped forward, helm dented, one arm bound in cloth. His voice trembled. "My lord… what of Harrowick?"
Dorian's scar twitched. He turned eastward. Smoke still curled into the sky beyond the ridges, carrying the smell of charred wood and flesh. The truth had already been written there.
"We ride," he said at last.
No cheer followed. Only grim resolve as men tightened straps, gathered wounded into carts, and lifted banners stained black with gore. Horses limped beneath weary riders. Still, the column formed. Blackthorn did not crawl. Blackthorn marched.
Before mounting again, Dorian caught his captain's eye. "Send word to the capital," he ordered. "Harrowick is gone. The king must know the border burns."
The captain bowed sharply. Within moments, a leather tube sealed with the Blackthorn sigil was tied to the leg of a hawk. With a sharp whistle, the bird launched skyward, cutting east through the ash-heavy wind.
The road to Harrowick was silent but for the clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels. The closer they came, the heavier the weight in the air grew.
Fields once golden with harvest were reduced to ash. Charred husks of cottages sagged inward, beams blackened and brittle. The gate to Harrowick stood ruined, one side collapsed into the dirt.
They passed beneath it.
Inside, the fief was gone.
Corpses lined the streets, blackened and twisted, locked forever in the agony of their final moments. No voice called out. No survivors stumbled forth.
Dorian dismounted, boots crunching over ash. His eyes scanned the destruction, jaw clenched. His hand never left the hilt of his greatsword.
Men muttered prayers. Some dropped to their knees. Others stood hollow-eyed, fury and grief burning quietly in their silence.
At the square, the truth was undeniable. Dozens of bodies had been piled like kindling and set ablaze. Only bones and soot remained.
One of his captains fell to his knees, clutching his head. "Gods forgive us… we were too late."
Dorian stood still for a long moment. Then he raised his sword, white fire sparking weakly along its edge.
"Remember this," he said, voice low but carrying. "Every man, woman, and child who died here. Remember their faces. Their screams. This is what demons bring."
His eyes burned, not with emerald fury now, but with something colder. "And this is why we will never yield."
The men bowed their heads. No cheer rose. Only an oath, sealed in silence.
By dusk, the army camped among the ruins. Ash drifted on the wind, settling over men and tents alike. Wounded were tended, dead were counted.
Dorian sat alone on the steps of a blackened hall, one hand pressed to the wound in his side. Every breath was fire, yet still he remained upright, gaze fixed on the horizon.
The demons would return.