A village sat nestled in a narrow, steep valley. Its squat, run-down buildings looked moments from collapse. Sunlight barely reached the valley floor, leaving it shrouded in deep, stretching shadows.

  A heavy smog clung to the air, blurring the outlines of everything, making the world seem hazy and indistinct.

  The few figures visible moved sluggishly—heading somewhere, yet wandering as if they had nowhere to go.

  "Don't look back, Lukas."

  Lukas, a blonde with a full head of hair, tore his gaze away and faced forward. "Sorry," he mumbled.

  He sat astride a red, three-eyed creature, his arms wrapped around the rider.

  The man glanced back at Lukas with a slight smile. "Don't worry, I'm not angry. I understand you're scared since you've never left your hometown. I can imagine it doesn't help that your first time is with a stranger."

  Lukas frowned in puzzlement. "Time?"

  "Oh, don't worry about that," the man replied smoothly. He snapped the reins, urging the creature forward. "And don’t worry about your family—I’ll visit them whenever I'm in the area."

  "But what about my father?" Lukas asked, clenching the fabric of his tunic over his chest, his fingers curling around something hidden beneath. "The harvest will start soon, and he'll be overwhelmed at the mill without my help."

  "Don't worry. Everything will be fine. I'll make sure of it."

  Lukas nodded, lowering his gaze and dropping his hand. He ran his fingers gently over the creature’s hide before quietly asking, "What kind of animal is this?"

  "A nyxstrider," the man said, patting the creature's head, his fingers weaving through its mane. "You'll probably get one of your own eventually—so long as you meet my expectations. But I'm not worried. I know you won’t disappoint me."

  He glanced down at Lukas. "You're three—too young to be my squire." His voice softened, but his gaze remained sharp. "Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t train you unofficially. But..." His brown eyes narrowed, pinning Lukas in place. "That doesn’t mean you can take it lightly. I expect you to give it your utmost, despite your age. Treat it as if your life depends on it—because it might."

  With a swift kick to the nyxstrider’s side, the beast surged forward into a gallop. "Welcome to a world beyond your imagination. You'll see things no mortal should, smell things that defy explanation, hear whispers that should never reach human ears."

  The man turned, his eyes glowing brilliant gold as they seized Lukas’s blue ones. "Welcome into my service."

  A meadow stretched wide and endless, a patchwork of tall greens and delicate wildflowers swaying in the gentle breeze. The air was thick with the scent of earth and saltwater.

  Yet, it was eerily quiet—unnaturally so. The birds were silent, and not a single critter scurried about.

  The meadow was both peaceful and lifeless.

  Then, without warning, that peace shattered. The clash of metal and the roar of battle rang through the air.

  Screams echoed across the field as soldiers collided, their voices melding with the frantic orders shouted above the fray. The once serene meadow had been transformed into a deadly battleground.

  "Oswald! Get up!"

  "Break through their lines, men! Let them taste your blade!"

  "MY LEG!"

  "Hold strong, reinforcements are coming!"

  The field was dyed a deep and dreary bloodred, as the lives of countless soldiers seeped into the earth. It didn’t matter who you were—young or old, male or one of the scattered women—every person fighting for their life could feel death breathing down their neck.

  From above, the field resembled a chaotic, poorly planned spectacle. And that’s exactly what it was—a performance directed by two disinterested parties.

  Below, poorly equipped and trained soldiers fought and died in the fray, while a single hill far in the rear stood in stark contrast—flanked by seasoned soldiers, silent and grim, their eyes fixed on the unfolding chaos.

  Tents of varying sizes dotted the hill, their canvas rippling in the wind. Amid them, tense figures rushed back and forth—tending to the wounded, retrieving supplies, and preparing for the ongoing battle. Messengers periodically dashed from the battlefield, their urgent reports reflecting the changes in the battle's shifting tide.

  Suddenly, a heavily armored rider burst from the fray, thundering toward the camp at breakneck speed atop a mangled, four-legged beast.

  "MAKE WAY!" he bellowed, snapping the reins.

  Soldiers scrambled aside, barely avoiding being trampled. The gaps were quickly filled, fingers pointing as hushed murmurs rippled through the ranks. The rider surged up the hill, his ragged cape streaming behind him, breath rasping beneath his helmet.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Upon reaching the summit, he barreled past the stationed guards and into the camp. No one dared to stop him as he thundered toward the camp's center, where a towering tent loomed.

  That tent was the command tent, the largest structure in the camp. Two flags rose from poles planted before it, billowing in the slight wind.

  He rode into the inner camp and didn't stop until he reached the command tent, despite the shouts ordering him to halt. The rider nearly collapsed as he dismounted, bracing himself against the ground at the last moment to break his fall. Blood seeped through his armor, dripping onto the dust.

  Ignoring the stares and hushed whispers, he staggered toward the command tent, clutching his wounded side. Two spearmen stood at the entrance, their weapons crossed before them. They watched him warily as he approached, exchanging uncertain glances.

  "Halt!" one of them barked, his voice straining for confidence. "State your business!"

  "MOVE, BEFORE I GUT YOU!" the rider thundered, his voice pained as he shuffled toward the guard.

  The guards froze, unsure whether to follow protocol or let him through.

  "Let him through."

  A commanding voice rang out from within the tent—low, yet unmistakable.

  The guards immediately stepped aside, hearts pounding as they lifted the tent flap for the rider to enter.

  As he passed, he shot them a scalding stare, his gaze fixing them in place.

  Murmurs erupted among the surrounding soldiers, their whispers filled with unease.

  "Wasn't that a Squire?"

  "Squire Phillip, I believe."

  "Did you see those wounds?"

  "Terrifying—I nearly pissed myself."

  "What the hell happened to him?"

  "I'd hate to find out."

  Inside the tent, Squire Phillip knelt. He'd removed his helmet, revealing his sweat-dampened face and bloodshot eyes. His head was bowed, and periodic trembles ran through his body. Each shudder sent his battered armor rattling softly.

  "Raise your head, Squire Phillip. What happened? You were supposed to be leading the Second Battalion at Point C."

  Squire Phillip lifted his gaze, looking past the war table to the towering figure before him—an armored man. A large black bird perched on his shoulder, its golden beak gleaming. Phillip met its gaze and shivered—those eyes seemed to pierce straight into his soul.

  Phillip tore his gaze from the bird and focused on the man. "Knight Benedict," he whispered, his mouth dry.

  The man stared down at him, his narrow eyes distant and unreadable.

  Phillip swallowed hard, that cold gaze pressing into him. "We were ambushed. Those louts appeared like specters and threw the camp into disarray," Squire Phillip spat, forcing the words from his throat. "The range has been overrun. I barely broke through before they sealed off all the escape routes."

  Knight Benedict momentarily paused, "How did you return before any messengers?"

  "Chaos erupted as we fled. That may have delayed reports—no one had a clear grasp of the situation. I rushed back to warn you, but more messengers will likely arrive soon to confirm."

  "Damage report."

  Phillip looked away, shame weighing heavily on his shoulders. "They were far stronger than any soldiers we've faced before."

  Benedict rapped his knuckles on the table, his gaze hardening. "Get to the point. How fares the Second Battalion?"

  "It was a devastating blow," Phillip whispered. "Only a third survived, and the four archery companies were nearly wiped out."

  A heavy silence settled over the tent as the men absorbed the news.

  "That battalion was the crux of all our plans. How did this happen?"

  A furious voice shattered the silence.

  Phillip flinched and turned to the left.

  A second man sat in a chair, his head propped on one arm against a small table. Like Benedict, he wore armor, but his face was flushed with rage.

  CAW!

  A bird perched on the table, fluttering and hopping restlessly, yet never leaving the man's side. Like Benedict’s, it had dark plumage, but where his bird was silent, this one was restless—cawing as it moved from end to end, its sharp eyes fixed on Phillip.

  Phillip’s shudders worsened under the man’s harsh words.

  "We gave you the easiest job—hold the range and secure the height advantage. And yet, somehow, you managed to ruin it."

  Phillip remained silent, his fists clenched at his sides, enduring the storm of words.

  "You were in charge of the rearguard, yet you let them overrun the camp! The enemy couldn’t advance without being cut down by arrows, leaving us plenty of ways to break them. So tell me, how did you manage this?"

  Knight Benedict watched gravely as Squire Phillip was torn down, then finally sighed and raised a hand. At once, the second man fell silent and stepped back, his sharp gaze still drilling into Phillip.

  "That's enough. Go to the barber-surgeon and get yourself looked at—I don’t want you bleeding out on my rug." His eyes shifted to the war table. "You’re dismissed."

  Phillip struggled to his feet, his shoulders slumping as he turned and walked out—defeated.

  Silence hung between them as they gathered their thoughts.

  "Damn it all!" Fitzgerald exploded, slamming his fist against the table. "That bastard will feel the lash for this."

  "Calm yourself, Fitzgerald," Benedict said, rubbing his temple. "Your anger won’t change what’s already done. When this is over, we’ll decide his punishment. For now, our priority is damage control."

  Armor clanked as Fitzgerald stood and strode to the war table, his sharp gaze scanning the maps and documents strewn across it. "We must assume Squires Geoffrey, Thomas, and Anabelle remain unaware of the situation and are still leading their regiments beyond the range."

  Benedict nodded sharply. "This is a perilous situation. One wrong move, and the entire army could be wiped out."

  "What do you mean?" Fitzgerald asked, brow furrowing.

  "The three regiments beyond the pass now have enemies both in front and behind them—they’ve been effectively cut off and surrounded. If I were the enemy commander, there would be only one logical move: position several squads of archers along the cliffs, just as we did."

  Fitzgerald’s jaw tightened. "And once they’re in range, unleash a storm of arrows."

  "Exactly. And they won’t have to wait long," Benedict said, his gaze shifting to a nearly empty hourglass on the table’s far edge. "Any moment now, those three will begin withdrawing—unaware they’re walking into a death trap." He extended his arm, waiting as the bird hopped onto it.

  Fitzgerald exhaled sharply. "Perhaps the sounds of battle at the encampment alerted them and prompted a swift retreat. If so, the damage may have been minimized."

  "Plan for the worst. Don't rely on chance," Benedict said evenly, lowering his arm so the bird hopped onto the table.

  "With that in mind," he continued, his gaze shifting to Fitzgerald, "gather the reserves. We march."

  Fitzgerald stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Fine, but you know as well as I do, we won't get there until it's too late. Armies march slowly."

  Benedict met his gaze, eyes sharp. "Then what do you suggest?"

  Fitzgerald exhaled, his eyes drifting toward the tent flap. "There's only one option." He straightened. "GUARDS!"

  The flap flew open, spilling light into the dim tent. "Yes, Knight Fitzgerald?"

  "Fetch the quartermaster. Tell him to bring our guest." His expression hardened. "He needs to earn his keep."

  The guard bowed low and hurried off.

  Benedict groaned, sinking onto a stool. "I wanted to avoid this."

  "As did I," Fitzgerald admitted. "But we don't have a choice."

  Benedict rubbed his temple. "We still need more information. We can’t form a solid plan without it."

  "Riders will arrive soon," Fitzgerald said, moving to his side. "We’ll have what we need then. Until that happens, we plan with what we have."