Hakkan turned his head toward the direction of the scream, but the night was deep and black, nothing could be seen.
"Wh–what was that…?" Boc stammered, his voice trembling. He was no warrior—violence and bloodshed were things far removed from him.
"I don't know. Could be someone attacked by a beast." Hakkan frowned, hesitating. The junction of the nights were perilous. Countless beasts roamed the wilderness after dusk, and there were even whispers of strange horrors that existed only in the hours of darkness.
By reason, they should not investigate. Yet, their patrols were part of Lucian's orders—if something happened close by and they ignored it, it would not sit well with him.
And besides, why fear? They had numbers on their side. Even if not everyone went, leading thirty or forty riders would be enough—on the lands of Limgrave, there was little they could not handle.
Hakkan ordered the rest of the mercenaries to escort Boc back to camp, while he handpicked a few dozen to ride with him. They would see who screamed, and perhaps save some unlucky soul.
Still, none allowed arrogance to take root. Where once a single torch lit the way, now nearly every rider bore one, firelight scattering the shadows and pushing back the chill gnawing in their hearts.
Hakkan jogged the line of horsemen, checking each man's readiness before calling out, "All set? Good. Let's move!"
The troop thundered toward the source of the scream, hooves pounding like war drums, firebrands casting wild shadows across the dark plain.
But when they arrived, their hearts sank.
The scream had led them not to some secluded grove or hidden hollow, but to the main road itself.
Hakkan's face grew grim. Along the road burned iron braziers—the kind meant to keep beasts at bay. No common predator would attack here. If blood had been spilled on this path, then it could only mean one of two things: either a monstrous brute, like a Rune Bear, or men cruel and brazen enough to slay beneath the flame. Both spelled peril.
Yet reality was far crueler than even that.
Before them were not beasts, nor bandits, but four towering figures clad head to toe in blackened iron. Even their steeds wore shrouds of sable. With grim silence, they rode the road, slaughtering without pause.
Among them, a host of Tarnished had already fallen. Hundreds lay strewn across the stone, their corpses piled where once a caravan had stood.
The riders cut them down like wheat, the road slick with fresh blood.
Hakkan's mercenaries were men of the field—wanderers, sellswords. Their ears were well acquainted with tales, even if their news was not always true. And at once, memory struck them.
These were the dread Riders of the Night.
Night's Cavalry.
Whispers told of them: knights clad in darkness, astride deathly steeds, servants of the Omen, reapers that haunted the roads after dusk. They were the pall that smothered courage, the death that stalked the hour of midnight.
Tarnished still standing raised their weapons in futile defiance, but it was meaningless. Each who swung was met with overwhelming force—flung aside, crushed, slain. The cavalry's first charge shattered their will; what remained was only slaughter. Even those who tried to scatter were hunted, the riders splitting apart with eerie coordination, running each down one by one.
Hakkan swallowed, bile rising in his throat. His instincts screamed to flee, but his honor bound him. Gritting his teeth, he roared for his men to interfere—to distract the riders, to buy what Tarnished they could a chance to flee.
He raised a whistle to his lips and blew, sharp and long. Overhead, a stormhawk wheeled down, awaiting command.
There was no time for parchment or ink. Hakkan shouted directly; "Fly to Stormveil! Find Lucian, Elyssa, the Crucible Knight—any of them! Bring them here at once!"
It was their only hope. The mercenaries, for all their valor, were but men. Against knights such as these, they were scarcely more than fodder.
Yet even that fragile hope was torn away in a heartbeat.
A shrill, strangled cry split the night sky. The stormhawk plummeted, feathers trailing black, its lifeless body thudding into the earth at Hakkan's feet.
His white wolf snarled, teeth bared at the hill above. Hakkan followed its gaze—and his blood ran cold.
From the ridge descended more shadows. One, then two, then six. Six more Night's Cavalry.
In total, ten knights of shadow now rode the plain.
They had seen the new arrivals and, with wordless communion, summoned their brethren. None must bear witness to their mission. Not a single survivor.
With flawless unity, they lowered their lances and thundered down the slope. The road shook beneath their charge—their quarry: Hakkan and his mercenaries.
Hakkan's heart turned to ice. Still, he raised his greatsword, bellowing as he spurred his steed forward.
The clash was as hopeless as it was brief.
The mercenaries fell in droves. Horses screamed, steel shattered, men were trampled beneath iron hooves. Against such overwhelming might, resistance was meaningless.
In moments, only Hakkan remained standing, his armor cracked, his breath ragged. His warhorse lay dying, the white wolf whimpering and broken. Together, they had managed to drag one rider from his saddle, to kill a single knight. But against nine, the struggle was futile.
One dismounted knight faced him now, his steed slain by Hakkan's earlier blow. The others, unconcerned, busied themselves culling the wounded, ensuring none lived.
Hakkan's grip tightened on his ruined weapon. His chest heaved, blood dripping beneath his armor. Death's chill already crept into his bones.
"Why have you come to Limgrave?" he rasped, his voice a hoarse growl. "Who sent you?"
The rider gave no answer. With cold silence, he swung his glaive in a brutal upward arc.
Hakkan met it with his greatsword—steel shrieked against steel, the force nearly ripping him from his feet. For an instant, he thought he had held.
But then—
A phantom appeared.
A grey, ghostlike afterimage materialized behind the rider, mimicking his movement. Its weapon cleaved the same stroke, striking the exact same spot.
Hakkan's blade shattered. The phantom glaive pierced through his chestplate, gouging a fatal wound.
He fell to his knees, breath choking, eyes wide with disbelief.
What… what was that shadow?
He had no time to wonder. Darkness claimed him, his thoughts scattering like ash.
And yet—before the end, he felt it. A weight, vast and terrible, pressing down upon the battlefield. A presence that dwarfed even the dread of the riders.
Then came a voice, furious and resolute;
"Night's Cavalry… your end is nigh."