The Black Reign

Ten years ago

The skies above the contested plains of Alerith burned with fire and shadow. The vanguard of the Astadian forces—tens of thousands strong—marched under the banner of the King, their golden sun gleaming against a sea of blood-red sky. It was an army meant to break the rebellion in the west, a coalition of rogue lords who had defied the crown for too long.

But their march faltered at the gates of Ravenhold, the fortress of Lord Cael Valtis, leader of the rebellion. High atop the black stone keep, archers and ballistae rained death upon the advancing Astadian forces, their fire relentless. The rebellion's banner—a silver raven on a field of black—whipped defiantly in the wind.

The King of Astad stood at the heart of the command tent, his golden armor tarnished from days of battle. His hair, once bright as Drema's light, was streaked with gray. He slammed a gauntleted fist onto the war table, where a map of the region was spread out.

"We cannot breach the gates," the King growled, his deep voice rattling with frustration. "Every assault falters before we even touch the walls. My lords falter, my men die, and the rebellion grows stronger. Do none of you have a solution?"

The war council fell silent, each noble looking away, unwilling to meet the King's burning gaze. But then, a shadow stirred in the corner of the tent—a man clad in black armor, his presence like a blade cutting through the tension.

Osiris Redwyn stepped forward, his black cape swirling behind him. His face, sharp and angular, bore the weight of countless campaigns. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked with the King's.

"There is a solution, Your Majesty," Osiris said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "But it requires the kind of resolve only you possess."

The King's brow furrowed. "Speak plainly, Osiris. What is your plan?"

Osiris leaned over the map, his gloved finger tracing a path through the eastern cliffs. "Ravenhold's gates are impenetrable, but the cliffs to the east are unguarded. Too steep for an army, but not for wyverns. My wing and I will infiltrate the fortress by air, striking at the heart of their command."

A murmur spread through the council. One of the younger lords, Lord Alric, stepped forward, his face pale with fear. "That's suicide! The ballistae will tear you out of the sky!"

Osiris turned to him, his gaze as sharp as the black blade at his side. "The ballistae are focused on your lumbering forces. They won't expect a wyvern strike in the dead of night. While they scramble to respond, the main army will assault the walls. Ravenhold will fall before dawn."

The King studied Osiris, his eyes narrowing. "You speak as if the victory is already assured."

"It will be," Osiris said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I have never failed you, Your Majesty. I will not fail you now."

The King's lips curved into a grim smile. "Then let the Black Baron do what he does best. Break them."

The cold wind bit at Osiris as he soared high above the battlefield, his black wyvern, Umbra, cutting through the night sky like an arrow of shadow. The moonlight glinted off the wyvern's obsidian scales, its massive wings carrying them silently toward the eastern cliffs.

Behind him, the other riders of his wing followed in tight formation, their wyverns gliding with practiced precision. Osiris's men were not ordinary soldiers—they were killers, forged in the fires of the Black Reign. Each rider had sworn loyalty to him, their fear of the man outweighing even their loyalty to the crown.

"Hold the formation," Osiris commanded, his voice carrying over the rushing wind. "We strike as one. No mercy, no hesitation."

They reached the cliffs, the fortress of Ravenhold looming before them. The ballistae were silent, their operators focused on the Astadian forces below. Osiris gripped the reins, guiding Umbra into a steep dive.

"Now," he barked.

The riders followed, their wyverns plunging like shadows cast from the moon. They fell upon the fortress with the fury of a storm, black fire erupting from the wyverns' maws as they rained destruction on the walls. Screams erupted as the rebels scrambled to respond, their archers firing blindly into the sky.

Osiris leapt from Umbra's saddle as they reached the inner courtyard, landing with the grace of a predator. His black blade sang as he drew it, cutting down the first rebel who dared to challenge him. The rest of his wing dismounted, their weapons flashing in the firelight as they tore through the panicked defenders.

"Secure the gates!" Osiris commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Let the King's forces in!"

The keep was a maze of stone corridors, but Osiris moved through it like a wraith, his black blade cutting down any who stood in his way. His movements were precise, each strike calculated to kill. Blood splattered the walls, but Osiris did not falter. He was the Black Baron, the King's shadow, and mercy had no place in his heart.

He found Lord Valtis in the great hall, surrounded by a handful of loyal guards. The rebel leader was a tall man with silver hair and a proud demeanor, his armor dented but his spirit unbroken.

"So, the Black Baron himself comes to kill me," Valtis said, his voice steady despite the blood on his lips. "Tell me, Osiris, do you ever tire of being the King's hound?"

Osiris tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Do you ever tire of losing?"

Valtis laughed bitterly. "You think this is a victory? You think crushing one rebellion will stop others from rising? You're a fool, Osiris. The people of Astad will never stop fighting."

"They will if I kill enough of them," Osiris said coldly. He raised his blade. "But you won't live to see it."

The fight was short but brutal. Valtis was a skilled swordsman, but he was no match for the Black Baron. Osiris disarmed him with a swift strike, his blade cutting through the man's sword arm. Valtis fell to his knees, blood pooling beneath him.

"Do it," Valtis spat. "Kill me."

Osiris hesitated for the briefest of moments. In Valtis's eyes, he saw defiance—a reflection of the fire that had once burned in his own. But he pushed the thought aside and plunged his blade into the man's chest.

The rebellion was over.