6:30 p.m. - At Drakensvale Camp
Beyond the burning ruins of the village, another fire burned—a less visible, but more enduring one.
Inside a cramped war tent illuminated by the erratic dance of firelight, Seraphina stood amidst Drakensvale's generals. Shadows flickered against the darkened walls, lengthening under the torchlight that painted the ceiling in hues of molten orange. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, with tension—thickened further by the overlapping symphony of raised voices.
"More dragons, that's what we need!" General Varrik's voice thundered, as raw and jagged as the scar cutting from his brow to jaw. His commanding presence radiated power, though Seraphina often thought it veered dangerously close to blind zeal.
She let the noise surge around her, like waves crashing endlessly against a shore. Her gaze lingered on the battle map spread across the table, its surface marred by knife scratches and wine stains. The others shouted, argued, and banged fists on the wood, but Seraphina waited. She had learned that patience often carried more weight than volume.
Then, quiet but commanding, her voice cut across the chaos.
"Cease."
The word fell like steel. The clamor faltered, collapsed, until only the fire crackled in the silence. All eyes shifted to her—curiosity, respect, and that ever-present thread of doubt mingled in their stares.
"Let us analyze our enemy's movements carefully," Seraphina said, leaning forward to rest her palms against the table. Her black-red armor caught the firelight, throwing back glimmers like smoldering coals. She locked eyes with each general in turn, forcing them to hold her gaze. "Wisdom always triumphs over strength in the end. Have any of you stopped to consider the possibilities?"
A quiet hush rippled through the tent. General Lyscia, the sharpest among them, tapped her chin in thought, her hawk-like eyes glimmering with something between admiration and calculation.
"The Aurelthorn exploit their terrain to our detriment," Seraphina continued, voice steady, deliberate. "King Aldric is cautious, yes, but not without cunning. His people are learning, adapting. Underestimate them further, and we risk bleeding ourselves dry."
General Varrik leaned forward, his massive frame shadowing half the table. He glowered at her, tone edged like drawn steel. "You're suggesting we abandon what has always worked for the Drakensvale. Strength and fire win wars, not hesitation."
Seraphina did not flinch. "Loyalty is a fragile thing, General," she countered evenly, meeting his glare with cool defiance. "We must secure it, not squander it. Fear alone does not sustain empires—it only buys time before rebellion festers."
A brief silence followed, tense as a drawn bowstring.
From the far side of the tent, Mersha's eyes met Seraphina's. The woman gave the faintest of nods—small, subtle, but filled with quiet solidarity. It was enough.
Seraphina straightened, her expression carved from iron. "We need to be clever, not merely brutal. Remember who we are: the Drakensvale Empire. We are not just another band of marauders from the north. If we act without foresight, we become no better than them."
Her words lingered in the air like smoke. The generals shifted uneasily, torn between their instincts and her reasoning. For a moment, only the snapping of the fire filled the silence of the war tent.
(The war tent is alive with tension. Firelight flickers across the map of Eryndral, illuminating the scarred faces of Drakensvale's generals. The air smells of burnt parchment, steel, and the faint tang of sweat. Twenty thousand soldiers wait outside, ready to march. The only question: where?)
Varrik(leaning over the map, his scar gleaming in the torchlight, voice like gravel):
"Draemyr butchered ten thousand* of our men in a single night. Ten thousand. If we don't act now—if we let him rally Aurelthorn's remnants—he'll carve us apart piece by piece. We take Eryndral Village tonight. Cut off his supply lines. Force him into the open."*
Mersha(fingers steepled, her voice low but edged with urgency—protective, sisterly):
"And what happens when we do* force him into the open? Draemyr doesn't fight fair. He'll lure us into traps, bleed us dry before we even see his face. And the Dragon Knight still hasn't returned. Eryndral Village is a gamble, Varrik. One we can't afford."*
Lyscia(tapping the map with a slender finger, her tone analytical but dismissive):
"Two hundred villagers with pitchforks won't hold those walls. Draemyr? He'll scale them like they're nothing. If we garrison there, we can use the village as a staging ground to hunt him down. It's the logical move."
Mersha(snaps, her patience fraying):
"Logical? Burning that village last winter was logical*. Look where that got us. Now people are setting a traps, and they're not just rebuilding walls—they're rebuilding hate. They'll fight us to the last breath, and Draemyr will use that."*
Seraphina(grips the hilt of her dragonfire blade, her crimson eyes flickering with conflict):
"Mersha... your counsel has always been sound. But Varrik's right. We can't let Draemyr regroup. If Eryndral Village gives us even the slightest advantage—"
Mersha(cuts her off, her voice sharp):
*"—it's an illusion. Draemyr's not just a man—he's a shadow. You corner him, he slips through your fingers. You chase him, he leads you into a slaughter."* *(She turns to Seraphina, her gaze steady.)* "We've fought him before. You know this."
Seraphina(pauses, softer—almost guilty):
*"And after this campaign... your retirement estate in the highlands will be secured. I'll see to it."* (The words hang in the air—a bribe, a guilt offering, and a farewell all at once.)
Mersha(bitter laugh, her eyes hardening):
"Ah. So my worth is measured in land now? Fine. Send the Knights of the Ashen Wing first. If Draemyr's waiting for us, they'll find him."
Varrik(nodding, missing—or ignoring—the venom in her voice):
"Sensible. We march at midnight."
(The generals file out, leaving Seraphina and Mersha alone in the tent. The map lies between them, Eryndral Village circled in bold red ink. Somewhere in the distance, a soldier's laughter carries on the wind, oblivious to the storm about to break.)
The tent flap shuddered as Varrik's booming voice carried through camp, ordering battalions into formation. Torchlight bled through the canvas walls, painting jagged shadows across the war table where Seraphina still stood frozen. Mersha hadn't moved either—both women locked in the silence that follows a battle lost before the first sword is drawn.
The scent of oiled leather and iron grew sharper as Mersha methodically unbuckled her gauntlets. Every clasp's click sounded like an accusation. When she finally spoke, the battlefield rasp was gone from her voice - stripped bare as a fresh wound.
"You promised me retirement lands near the Silver Peaks..."
The tent flap fluttered in the cold night wind as the last of the strategists departed, leaving only Mersha and Seraphina standing over the war table. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across Mersha's gauntleted hands as she traced the route to Eryndral Village on the worn map.
"You promised me retirement lands near the Silver Peaks," Mersha said quietly, her voice rough from years of battlefield commands. "I measured those fields myself last spring."
Seraphina's crimson eyes flickered in the dim light. "The deed is already signed. Ten square leagues of the finest vineyards in Drakensvale."
"Don't." Mersha's fist clenched on the map, crumpling the parchment. "Don't pay me off like some common sellsword. After all these years... after Veyndral..."
"The siege was fifteen years ago," Seraphina countered, but her voice lacked conviction. The memory of Mersha hauling her teenage self through burning rubble still haunted her dreams.
Mersha's gauntlet swept across the map. "Twenty thousand soldiers. Four generals. Enough force to besiege Castle Aurelthorn itself. And Varrik would have us waste them on a paltry forest hamlet?"
Seraphina gripped the hilt of her dragonfire blade. "Draemyr slaughtered ten thousand at Blackfen Gorge. We must—"
"Must what?" Mersha interrupted. "Throw good men after bad? That village has barely around hundred souls left after our last raid. There's no glory here, only Varrik's blind fear."
"They rebuilt the curtain walls," Seraphina pointed out. "Lyscia's right—that stone will protect our forces if we garrison there."
Mersha's laugh was bitter as poison. "Ah yes, the mighty General Lyscia. Three campaigns and not a single scar to show for it." She leaned in, her voice dropping. "Tell me, little sister, when did you start taking tactical advice from scholars rather than soldiers?"
Seraphina's nostrils flared. "Enough! I am First General of Drakensvale, not your—"
"My what?" Mersha cut her off. "My charge? My responsibility? Or do you finally tire of the woman who changed your swaddling clothes?"
The silence between them grew heavy, punctuated only by the distant clank of armor as soldiers prepared for the march.
At last, Mersha straightened her pauldrons. "Very well. I'll lead the Ashen Wing in." Her fingers traced the silver wing emblem on her breastplate—Seraphina's name day gift ten years past. "remember—you chose this."
"You're not going to die," Seraphina snapped, but her voice caught on the lie.
Mersha paused at the tent flap. "We both know that vineyard deed was never meant to be claimed." With that, she vanished into the night, her crimson cloak whipping behind her like a bloody banner.
The faint echo of Drakensvale's warhorns sounded in the distance. Twenty thousand men would march at midnight. Seraphina stared at the crumpled map, the ink smeared where Mersha's gauntlet had crushed the path to Eryndral Village into illegibility.
6:30 p.m. - At Drakensvale Camp
(The night is thick with the scent of torches and iron, the air vibrating with the restless energy of twenty thousand soldiers. The Drakensvale army stretches across the fields like a sea of dark steel, banners rippling in the cold wind. Atop a raised platform, Varrik stands, his scarred face illuminated by firelight, his voice a thunderous growl that carries across the ranks.)
Varrik: *"Warriors of Drakensvale! Look around you—see the men who stand at your side! Each of you, forged in fire, bloodied in battle, unbroken by the coward's blade! Tonight, Aurelthorn's shadow—that butcher Draemyr—believes we have forgotten the ten thousand he slaughtered at Blackfen Gorge!"* *(He sweeps his arm toward the dark horizon.)* "He thinks we will cower while he creeps through forests, cutting at our flanks like a thief in the night! I SAY NO!"
(A roaring cheer erupts, shaking the earth. Varrik bares his teeth, the torchlight catching the jagged scar down his face.)
*"At dawn, the enemy will wake to a new world—one where their precious lands burn behind them! Eryndral Village will be OURS!"* *(A rhythmic pounding of spears on shields builds like a war drum.)* "Its walls will be our shield, its granaries our feast, and when we drag that fox Draemyr from his den, we will show King Aldric the price of defiance!"
(The army erupts in a frenzy. Axes are raised, and the very air hums with bloodlust.)
*"You do not march alone! The Dragons of Veyndral fly with you! The legions behind you WILL NOT FALTER! FORWARD—!"* *(His blade whips free, a silver arc in the night.)* "—TO VICTORY, TO FIRE, TO EMPIRE!"
(The final cry shakes the heavens. Twenty thousand voices scream as one. Warhorns bellow, banners snap, and with the force of a breaking storm, the horde moves, a black tide beneath the stars—toward Eryndral and the war to come. unaware they march toward history's most famous disappearance. Somewhere in the dark, fractal patterns of light begin pulsing between the ancient trees...)
10:10 p.m. - At Eryndral Village
Jonas approached, wiping soot from his hands onto a worn tunic. His eyes carried both exhaustion and gratitude.
"Ryan," he said softly, "you risked yourself for me back there. I won't forget it."
Ryan shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "I just… couldn't stand there and watch. Didn't feel right."
Jonas gave a slow nod, the lines on his face deepening. "This is Eryndral Village. We've been trapped for years between Aurelthorn and the shadow of Drakensvale. War never leaves us in peace."
Ryan hesitated, then asked, "And what about you, Jonas? What do you do here?"
"I'm a herbalist," Jonas said with quiet pride. "I gather roots and leaves from the forest, mix them into medicines. Without them, half this village would not have survived fevers, broken bones, or raids. That is my craft, and my duty."
Ryan's eyes flicked to the bundle of herbs Jonas carried. "I found some plants while I was out in the forest. Don't really know what they are. Maybe you'd recognize them?"
Jonas brightened. "A traveler who gathers herbs? That is rare. Tell me what you found."
Ryan listed a few, stumbling through names he'd heard from villagers earlier. Jonas chuckled and corrected him, explaining what each was used for.
Healing Balm x 3: Promotes healing of minor wounds.
Sootheleaf x 5: Reduces inflammation and soothes pain.
Nightshade x 2: A potent poison when misused, but effective against fevers if prepared correctly.
Firethorn x 4: Used to create tinctures that ward off colds when brewed correctly.
Moonflower x 6: Known for calming effects; often used for anxiety.
Ironroot x 2: Boosts physical strength; beneficial for those recovering from exertion.
Mystic Fern x 1: Enhances clarity of thought; reputed to improve focus during spells.
Bramblethorn x 3: Provides defense against minor spells; used as a protective charm.
Lunar Peppermint x 2: Good for digestion and calming stomach aches.
Bloodberry x 4: Increases stamina and vitality; great for athletes and laborers.
Frostbloom x 1: Enveloped in cold magic; can be used to treat burns but must be handled with care.
Starlight Herb x 3: Used in potions for sleep, granting peaceful, restorative rest.
"You've a good eye," Jonas said, patting Ryan's shoulder. "These will help heal the wounded tonight. Even if you didn't know their worth, you still brought them. That matters."
"Guess I was just lucky." Ryan say
Jonas studied him for a moment, then asked, "Where do you come from, Ryan? Your speech is… different. And your clothing—unlike any I've seen."
Ryan's stomach tightened. He forced a half-smile.
"Far from here. Westward, mostly. I merchants with caravans, trading what little I could. Long roads, and little comfort. The road was long, and… not kind. Bandits took most of what I carried."
Jonas studied him, sympathy flickering across his soot-streaked face. "A merchants, then. That explains much. The west breeds many hardships, and those who survive the roads are seldom ordinary men."
Ryan gave a hollow laugh. "Useful. I can only hope."
Jonas seemed to accept the answer with a thoughtful nod. "Then perhaps that is why the others looked to you earlier. You stand out. And in times like these, standing out can make a man seem stronger than he is."
Ryan let out a faint laugh. "Stronger than I am? Believe me, I'm just trying to get by. I'm no warrior. No leader."
"Sometimes," Jonas said, his gaze drifting toward the smoldering ruins of the village, "that is exactly the kind of man fate chooses. Not the strongest, but the one who cannot walk away."
The words struck Ryan harder than he expected. He swallowed and changed the subject, trying to lighten the mood. "So… this place, this land—people can use magic, right? Real magic?"
Jonas chuckled, crouching to arrange his herbs. "Not everyone, no. But some are gifted by the spirits of earth, water, fire, and wind. It is not trickery—it is the breath of the land itself."
Ryan nodded, pulse quickening. "I may not have magic, or a sword arm worth much, but where I'm from… we've solved problems differently."
10:10 p.m. - At Outskirts
From the densely wooded outskirts of Eryndral Village, two scouts crouched behind the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, hearts racing in their chests. They exchanged terrified glances as the sight before them unfurled like a dark nightmare.
A massive army sprawled before them, the Drakensvale forces a seemingly endless sea of armored soldiers gathered at the foot of the mountains. Tents in shades of black and crimson formed a daunting landscape, their war banners fluttering ominously in the cold breeze.
"Do you see that?" one scout whispered, his voice trembling as he pointed toward the multitude. "It's like an army from the old tales..."
"It has to be twenty thousand!" the other replied, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear. "How can we warn the village? This… this is a slaughter waiting to happen!"
The first scout swallowed tightly, leaning in closer as if the towering presence of the enemy might hear them. "We have to run. They can't find us here. Move quickly!"
Together, they pushed away from the roots and sprinted back through the trees, leaving behind the horrifying sight of the approaching menace. Each step felt heavy with trepidation as they navigated the dense foliage, knowing the terror they had to impart to Ryan and the villagers.
"What do we say?" the second scout gasped between breaths. "How do we tell them it's that bad?"
The first scout shook his head, the weight of their discovery pressing down on him. "We tell them the truth. They need to prepare.
A sense of urgency swept through Ryan as the scout, a young man with nerves edged by the crumbling peace, rushed into the village with the news.
"We've found the Drakensvale forces!" he panted, eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination.
Ryan met the scout's gaze. "How many?"
"About ten thousand," the scout replied, his words a breathless gasp. "They're at the mountain's foot, shrouded in fog. We must hurry."
Ryan felt the weight of each word settle over him like a leaden shroud. Numbers like that… they were overwhelming. The odds were crushing.
"Okay," Ryan muttered, thinking quickly. "Sound the alarm—gather the villagers. We have to get everyone prepared fast."
The scout nodded, already half-turned to sprint toward the nearest group.
As the scout's warning spread, Ryan watched the faces around him shift from uncertainty to quiet resolution. Farmers and craftsmen, women and children—they moved with grim purpose, driven by an instinct to protect what little they had.
Ryan's mind spun through the plans he'd devised, hoping desperately they could hold, if only until more help could arrive. As he saw the villagers arming themselves, gathering the scant resources, he whispered, "We're going to need every bit of luck."