The winds of the valley had grown sharper as Martin and his men trekked deeper into the forest. The dense trees, a cold cathedral of pale ash, creaked overhead as they made their way down a narrow trail to the south. The quiet of the woods weighed heavy, as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

  It had been days since they struck the camp of the Black Flag, and while it had been a success, the threat still lingered like a storm on the horizon. The fortress was fortified, but they were not yet ready for the coming war. Still, Martin's mind was never far from the task at hand. The valley had been his home once, and now it was a fragile thing—a place teetering between survival and destruction.

  Then, as they came to the edge of a small clearing, he saw them—five squads of men, their formation loose but purposeful. About fifty soldiers, all of them armed, their shields battered but functional, their weapons dull but serviceable. The men moved with the sort of discipline that spoke of training, yet their equipment, though still in decent shape, was clearly unkempt, marked by months of hardship. The soldiers had clearly seen their share of battles.

  As Martin’s sharp eyes swept over the group, his gaze fell on the banners that marked their leader’s position. It was unmistakable. A wild boar, charging fiercely, painted in bold strokes on each of their shields. The emblem of the Bardas family.

  He froze. His breath caught in his throat.

  The Bardas family had once been one of the region’s most storied noble houses. But that had been years ago. The fall of their lands had been swift and brutal, a dark chapter in the region’s recent history. The thought that any of them could still be alive, let alone organized in force, seemed impossible. Yet here they were.

  The leader of the soldiers stepped forward, his face weathered and worn, his brown eyes hard as iron. He was tall, built like a fighter, with a scar running down the left side of his face, partially hidden by his short beard. His armor was dented but still bore the proud insignia of his family.

  “Who are you?” Martin called out, stepping forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  The man looked up, his gaze narrowing as he took in Martin’s own soldiers, but something in his expression softened when he saw the insignia of the fortress on Martin’s armor. He nodded grimly and spoke, his voice rough from days of travel. “I am Sebastian Bardas, of the Bardas family. And you are?”

  “Martin,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “I’m not here to fight you. But I need answers.”

  Sebastian gave a short, grim laugh. “Answers, eh? You’ll find none here that bring you peace. We were attacked, destroyed—what remains is all that’s left. We live now to survive. To remember what we were, what we lost.”

  Martin’s brow furrowed. “Tell me what happened.”

  Sebastian’s face darkened, his eyes hardening as he looked out toward the soldiers around him. “Three months ago, in the dead of night, they came for us. Barbarians—they stormed the keep, slaughtered the guards. It was a massacre. Lord Philip Bardas, our master, he died with the banner in his hand. Before he fell, he told us to run, to survive. We fled into the hills, and we’ve been running ever since. We’ve lost everything—our lands, our people, our home.”

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  Martin listened, the weight of Sebastian’s words sinking in. The last remnants of the Bardas family, scattered and broken, now stood before him. There was a fire in Sebastian’s eyes, a hardened will to survive that reminded Martin of his own struggle. But there was more—something deeper beneath the surface.

  “You’re not just survivors,” Martin said after a moment. “You’re soldiers. You still carry the banner.”

  Sebastian’s expression softened, a hint of pride lingering in his voice. “We still carry the boar. It’s all we have left. And we’ll carry it until the last of us falls.”

  Martin nodded slowly, the wheels turning in his mind. “The Black Flag, the barbarians—they’ve brought destruction to the land. But if you’re willing to join us, to swear fealty to the Prince, we might stand a chance. The fortress is safe for now, but we’ll need every sword we can get.”

  Sebastian studied him for a long moment. There was a hesitation, a brief flicker of doubt. But then his face hardened, and he stood taller, a silent resolve settling in his eyes. “If you speak the truth, then we’ll stand with you. We have no home to return to, no lands to claim. But we still have our honor, and we still have the boar.”

  With a quick nod, he turned to his men and addressed them with a few simple words. "We swear ourselves to you, Martin. To Prince Irineus, to this fortress, to the last breath.”

  ...

  Few days later

  The Bardas soldiers were given a place within the fortress walls. They were not refugees but soldiers—soldiers who had once known power, who had once commanded armies. Their presence brought an unexpected strength to the fortress, a reminder of what the region had lost and what could still be regained.

  In the following days, Martin and the soldiers of the Bardas family learned more from the refugees who had trickled into the fortress—more survivors of the brutal occupation of the southern villages. There were at least two hundred now, their faces worn with exhaustion, their eyes haunted. But they brought news that chilled Martin to the bone.

  The barbarians had taken the southern villages by force, enslaving many, killing others. The villages were now under occupation, left to fend for themselves or be driven into submission. What was more troubling, however, was the news that the barbarians had encountered the Black Flag.

  For weeks, the two factions had fought amongst themselves, a brutal and senseless war that had claimed many lives. But something had shifted. The Black Flag had managed to fend off the barbarians, albeit at a heavy cost.

  “They fought each other?” Martin asked one of the refugees, a young woman with her child in tow.

  “Aye,” she said, her voice trembling. “The Black Flag—they were strong, but the barbarians—they’ve been pushing them back, getting closer. They’re desperate. They’re running out of food. And the Black Flag? They’re broken. But they’re still alive.”

  “Barely,” said another refugee, an old man whose hands trembled as he spoke. “They’ve taken losses, but they won’t stop. Not until they have this valley or everything burns to the ground.”

  Martin’s jaw clenched. It seemed the Black Flag, weakened as they were, still posed a serious threat. And yet, despite everything, the barbarians were still a wild card, unpredictable and dangerous.

  “What does this mean for us?” asked Sebastian, his voice heavy with concern.

  “It means we prepare,” Martin said, his gaze turning toward the distant hills. “We fortify the walls, gather our forces. The Black Flag is still coming, but so are the barbarians. If they clash, it could give us an opening. But we’ll need to be ready for whatever comes next.”