The Storm

Atkins turned to his captain, a gaunt man with a crooked scar running from temple to chin. "Give them a small reward so that they will fight vigorously."

The captain bowed and strode into the ranks.

The first part was complete.

Two thousand locals were not enough.

Atkins stood at the top of the watchtower, the wind tugging at his coat, as the royal procession approached. At its head rode a knight clad in polished steel, his armor etched with gold, his helmet tucked beneath one arm. Beside him, a man rode with ease, glancing at the keep with idle curiosity.

And behind them, two thousand soldiers marched in perfect formation, plate-armored, shields gleaming.

As they entered the courtyard, Atkins descended.

The knight dismounted first, stepping forward.

"I am Sir Dawson of the Crimson Order," he declared. "By the command of Prince Ramsey, I am to assist your forces for this campaign."

The second man said with a bow, "I am Hyde."

Atkins regarded both of them carefully. Sir Dawson was a man known across the realm—an undefeated knight in open battle, famous for his sword techniques. Hyde, however, was less familiar—calm eyes, calculating posture.

"Welcome," the Baron said dryly. "You have come at the right time."

Sir Dawson snorted. "One less rival will be beneficial to Prince Ramsey."

Hyde looked at the assembled army. "Prepare your men for a fierce battle."

Atkins grinned. "You have nothing to fear, and victory is almost guaranteed."

It was near midnight when the gates opened again. The night air was thick with the chill of approaching storm.

Atkins waited at the gate, torches flickering.

The rider pulled back his hood. His hair was silver, falling past his shoulders, his eyes coal-dark and calm, like still water. A scar ran along his left cheek, and a single black ring adorned his gloved finger.

"Blackthorn," Atkins said with measured respect.

The infamous sellsword smiled faintly. "You called."

The Baron looked around and asked."Where are your men?"

A whistle pierced the air.

From the woods emerged a hundred, then five hundred, then a thousand mercenaries—silent, hooded, well-armed.

"I want thrice the previous price," Blackthorn said.

Atkins led him into the keep. "You will get your gold."

Blackthorn raised a brow. "How many?"

Atkins muttered. "He can muster probably a thousand men."

Blackthorn chuckled. "Lead the way."

A large table was spread with maps, tokens, and notes. The council had gathered—Baron Atkins, Sir Dawson, Hyde, and Blackthorn.

Atkins spoke first. "Steven holds the manor in Headow. He has fortified the hills and turned the old ruins into a stronghold."

Hyde nodded. "He controls the river route, which gives him supply access. But his forces are few and cannot be fragmented."

Sir Dawson leaned forward. "He may not be trained, but the man commands loyalty. That alone makes him dangerous."

Blackthorn pointed at the Blacklake. "This is where my men will strike. We will force him to split his army and fight on two frontiers."

Hyde tapped the Twin Hills. "We draw him into a chase and flank his army from the north."

Atkins said nothing for a long moment.

He looked at the map.

Then at the faces around him.

He stood slowly.

"Prince Steven will not survive this storm," he declared. "Before the next moon, his banner will burn. We will remove every obstacle in the path of Prince Ramsey."

A hush fell over the room.

Then Dawson raised his goblet. "To war."

Blackthorn unsheathed a dagger and stabbed it into the map.

Hyde rolled up the map with an eerie smile.

Drums echoed through the hills.

The three armies began to form ranks.

Three flags rose beside each other, flapping in the wind.

And in Headow, many miles away…

A scout rode hard toward the estate, dirt and sweat on his face, breath short, voice trembling as he dismounted.

Steven, standing by the window of his war room, turned slowly as the door burst open.

"My Lord," the scout gasped. "They are coming."

"Who?" asked Twyford.

The scout swallowed hard. "All of them."

Steven stood still, eyes scanning the parchment in his hand. He rolled the scroll after reading and set it gently on the table. "He made the first move."

Clinton spoke, his voice was low. "An army of five thousand men is a serious threat."

Twyford added, "Prince Ramsey is behind this, and we have to deal with this army."

Rosina looked up. "And the name Sir Dawson is attached to this campaign."

Clinton let out a quiet whistle. "Dawson? The Crimson Order?"

"Confirmed," Rosina nodded. "Along with a strategist named Hyde."

Steven rested both hands on the table, his jaw clenched.

His breath was calm, but beneath it, a storm was building. "And they have more," he said. "Blackthorn rides with them. A thousand blades for hire."

That brought silence again.

Beaver entered the room just then, cloak dripping with rain. He said grimly. "Three armies, and they are already marching."

Steven furrowed his brows, but there was no fear in his eyes. "Then we prepare."

He stood at the head of the long table, surrounded by his closest allies.

"I will not pretend this battle is simple," Steven began, his voice steady and carried by the silence. "We are outnumbered. They have gold, soldiers, and royal knights."

He looked around the table. "Everybody in this room has put both sweat and blood into reviving this place. And because you remembered what House Talvace once meant."

He pointed to the banner above. "My grandfather, General Wesley, was once called 'the Shield of the East.' He stood between chaos and the kingdom. And now, we rise to protect the people as he did."

He said. "HEADOW WILL NOT FALL.."

Shouts filled the hall.

Clinton slammed his fist on the table. "The men are ready to bleed for you."

Twyford unsheathed his sword halfway. "Then let them come. We will show them the might of Ashguard."

The next day, the rain poured in sheets, soaking the training grounds in mud. Still, Steven walked among the new recruits and old veterans alike.

About five hundred men stood beneath the Ashguard banner—farmers, hunters, wandering sellswords, even former guardsmen from fallen cities.

Rosina read their names aloud in the war chamber. "We have archers from the forest settlements, a group of hunters who served under the militia."

Beaver added, "And I have vetted all the new ones. Some minor crimes, mostly desperation, but no traitors."

Steven nodded. "Then we begin training. No one walks into this war soft."

Clinton barked orders at the courtyard that night.

By torchlight, swords clashed. Shields thudded. Orders rang.

And slowly, the heartbeat of a real army began to form.

The next moment.

"Riders at the southern pass," a scout said, breathless. "A banner—red sun over a broken tower."

Steven turned slowly. "That was the sigil of my grandfather. How many do you count?"

The scout smiled faintly. "About five hundred of them."

Steven raced to the watchtower.

Below, through the morning mist, ranks of armored horses and men were approaching. Their faces were weathered, their armor not of a single lord, but worn from years of forgotten wars.

At their front rode an older man with a long grey beard and a burn scar across his jaw.

As Steven descended the stairs, the gates opened.

The man dismounted, eyes sharp despite age. He knelt.

"My name is Garran Wyle," he said. "I served under General Wesley during the Westfall Campaign. He saved my life. My sons ride with me now."

Steven tightened his fist. "You came... for him?"

"And for you," the old man said. "His blood runs in through your veins, and you have done a good job in Headow. General Wesley will be proud."

By nightfall, another thousand arrived in staggered groups, border guards from Gildenmark, an entire caravan of ex-soldiers who remembered the General. They came to repay the favor.

Rosina wept softly after reading their names. "They have come... all because of him."

Clinton grinned. "Now we have an army."

The map was updated with new flags. Enemy routes are marked in crimson. Steven leaned forward with Rosina on his right and Clinton to his left.

Twyford ran his finger along the forest pass. "If we strike them here, we gain the advantage. But we risk splitting our forces."

Rosina frowned. "They will expect defense. Not offense."

Clinton smiled grimly. "Then let us disappoint them."

Steven took it all in, silent.

Then he pointed. "We split into two forces."

Heads turned.

He continued. "The main army will engage the enemy on the fields of Eastbrook. The second will be stationed at Blacklake."

The meeting ended, and they dispersed.

Steven knelt before the scorched oak tree where his grandfather had once buried his sword after the last battle fought here.

The blade was still there.

He dug gently, pulling it from the earth.

The steel still gleamed beneath the moonlight.

He whispered, "They came for you, old man. Now I will fight for them."

He turned.

The war was here.

As a Talvace, he would not wait for the storm.

He would ride into it.