The Black Baron

The tolling of the Pickette's bell echoed deep into the night, a sound both hollow and haunting. It was a constant reminder of their precarious position, the fortress teetering on the brink of collapse. Osiris sat at his war table, his once-proud armor collecting dust in the corner of the room. His gauntleted hand rested heavily on the quill as he scribbled order after order, his cursive precise despite the growing weight in his chest. Every directive felt like another nail in the coffin, another command to hold the line just a little longer. But even he knew they were delaying the inevitable.

The pipes had run dry two days ago, the water stores depleted under the unrelenting pressure of Estil's siege. The men, hardened veterans and green recruits alike, were crumbling. They groaned and rasped from thirst, their eyes hollow as they clutched their dry throats and looked to him for salvation. Osiris knew better than most that a man's resolve could only last so long without water. The enemy had chosen a smart, ruthless strategy, one he had not thought Estil capable of. They would starve the Pickette into submission.

This was not the Estil he had known. Their raids had always been wild, brutal, but strangely honorable. He respected their fire, even if he had once thought them savages. But this siege—this cold, calculated choking of his men—was unlike anything he had faced before. It was the work of a Gahkar who understood not just battle, but war in its darkest form.

The bell tolled again, low and heavy, and Osiris forced himself to put aside the strategic directives. They were meaningless now. It was time to write the letters—the final letters to his family. His quill hovered above the parchment for a long moment as he considered his words. What could he possibly say to his sons, to his wife, that could bring comfort when he could not?

"My dear son,

As I write this, Estil beats on the doors of the Pickette. The fortress has become both a shield and a cage. Our vassalized reinforcements were routed before they could reach us. The rumors you brought of the wyvern rider were true, and for that, I offer both my gratitude and my scolding. It was reckless, Alden, and you should not have risked so much for so little. Even if they had arrived, it would not have saved us. Nor will the king be pleased.

By the time you read this, it will be too late. I am afraid this letter reaches you as my final words. I will do what the title of Black Baron demands, but I know the odds. Either Estil will take the Pickette, or we will break the siege at the cost of every man inside these walls.

You have always carried too much of your mother's temper, my boy. I know you will want vengeance. I know you will want to raise the banner of House Redwyn and strike back with fire and fury. But listen to me now, Alden: Do not let your anger lead you. The world has enough hounds, enough men who blindly follow the crown into bloody wars. You are better than that. Our house is better than that."

Osiris paused, his hand trembling as he thought of Alden, his fiery gaze and unwavering determination. His eldest son was so much like him—too much, perhaps.

"I know you will call me a coward for these words. You may curse my name for writing this, but I must ask it of you. Do not seek the Bloodmark. It is a fool's pursuit, a relic of our ancestors that brings only pain. Let it die with me, Alden. Instead, I ask that you turn your strength toward something greater. Conquer south or north, build alliances, and secure a future where your children will not have to fight as we have.

Protect your brother, and protect your mother. That is the greatest honor you can achieve."

"My dear Ralik,

You are so unlike your brother, and yet you are just as precious to me. Where Alden inherited my temper, you received my softer nature. You carry your mother's voice, a gift that brings light to the darkest days. Never let anyone tell you that your song is lesser than the sword. A man who can sing, who can truly pour his soul into melody, is one who understands the beauty and tragedy of life.

Do not blame yourself for my death. It is not your sin to carry. This was my choice, my duty, and my failure.

Sing for me, Ralik. Sing for your brother, and for your mother. Let your music be a reminder of what we fight for. And when the world weighs too heavily on Alden's shoulders, be his strength. He will need you, though he may never admit it."

Osiris sat back in his chair, the quill shaking as he dipped it into ink once more. This was the hardest letter to write—the one that made his chest ache with a pain far deeper than any wound.

"My dearest,

There are no words that can truly convey what I feel for you. You have been my anchor, my mind when I was lost in battle, my solace when the weight of the world grew too heavy. I see your face in my dreams even now, and it gives me the courage to face what is to come.

I have failed in many things, but I hope I have never failed to show you how deeply I love you. In this lifetime or the next, I will find you again. Be it a thousand years or a thousand lifetimes, I will wait for you."

Osiris sealed the letters and handed them to the delivery hawk. The bird's silken necklace glimmered in the pale light as it soared out of the window, vanishing into the night sky.

The beating of drums signaled the coming dawn, and with it, the final battle. Osiris donned his armor in solitude, each piece fastening with a weight that was both physical and emotional. The black plate gleamed faintly in the crimson light of the sun, the Redwyn crest painted on its chest a stark reminder of who he was and what was expected of him.

He strode down the line of his men, placing a hand on each soldier's shoulder. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes sunken, but they stood. They stood for him, for Astad, for their families. He did not deserve their loyalty, but he would honor it.

The drums grew louder as Osiris turned to address them. "Men of Astad," he began, his voice steady but solemn. "Today, we stand against an enemy who has proven themselves more cunning and ruthless than we ever expected. They have taken our water, our strength, and our hope. But they cannot take our will.

I will not lie to you. This battle will likely be our last. And if any of you wish to leave, I will not stop you. I would not begrudge you the chance to live. But for those who stay, know this: We fight not for titles or crowns, but for the people we love. For the homes we have sworn to protect. I fight for my family, as I know you fight for yours.

If this is to be our end, then let it be an end worthy of song. Let Estil remember the Black Baron and his men as a force that refused to kneel."

A cry rose from the men, their voices hoarse but filled with defiance. Osiris raised his blade, the sister sword to Alden's Black Blade, and pointed it toward the horizon.

"For Astad!" he roared, and the men echoed his cry.

As the sun rose blood-red over the battlefield, Osiris charged into the fray. His blade carved through the enemy like a reaper's scythe, his armor dark and unyielding. He would die as he had lived—with a sword in his hand and his heart with his family.