The Clover Knights arrived at Fallow's Ferry as the sun bled into the horizon, casting a red glow over the village.
Fallow Ferry was a settlement of grim practicality, not rustic charm.
It lay nestled in a muddy bend of the Snakewater River, a wide, sluggish flow the color of tarnished brass.
A defensive palisade of sharpened, rough-hewn timber logs encircled its heart, patched in places with newer, lighter wood—a visible testament to a life of constant unease.
Inside, the air wasn't just still; it was thick with a held-breath tension.
The usual sounds of life were strangled, replaced by the nervous, rhythmic clang of a blacksmith desperately reinforcing the main gate.
Low buildings of timber and river stone with thick thatched roofs clustered around a churned-up mud-and-gravel square.
The only signs of life were the pale, fearful faces peering from behind shuttered windows.
Ash, in a fitted gray tunic, sturdy dark pants, and clean leather boots, stepped down from the horse-drawn cart that carried their supplies, feeling the villagers' terrified stares.
He was only a trainee here.
Blackthorn had left Captain Torren, a grizzled veteran with a steel gaze, in charge of the kingdom's defenses, his unyielding presence ensuring order in their absence.
Before the knights could fully unload the carts, a group hurried from the shadow of the longhouse.
At its front was a man with a weary face and the bearing of someone who hadn't slept in days—the village elder.
At his side was a Clover Knight, his green cloak dusty, his expression one of profound relief as he snapped a sharp salute to Blackthorn.
"Captain," the knight said, his voice rough with fatigue. "Knight-Corporal Evander.
We've held the perimeter, but the attacks come only at night. They test the walls. It's… methodical."
The elder stepped forward, hands clasped as if in prayer.
"Thank the roots you've come, Captain Blackthorn," he breathed, eyes darting to the darkening tree line.
"The things in the woods… they're not animals. They watch us. They took the Millers from their home two nights past, right through a locked door. No sound. Just… gone."
Blackthorn's gaze swept the palisade, already assessing, planning.
"Your people?" he asked, his voice a low rumble demanding facts, not fear.
"Hidden at the first sign of dusk, Captain," Evander reported. "But the fear is a poison. We can't hold their morale forever."
"Then we give them a shield," Blackthorn said, his decision final. He turned to his team.
"Borin. The wall. Find its weaknesses before they do. Sven, organize the militia. Treat Evander's men as your sergeants. They know the ground."
Borin, broad and weathered, with a scarred face, graying beard, and dark blue hair cropped short, glinting like deep water, strode toward the palisade without a word.
His heavy, earth-toned cloak swayed over a sturdy tunic, reinforced at the shoulders, with thick leather bracers etched with runes grounding his solid boots.
He dropped to one knee, pressing bare palms flat against the dirt, his breathing slowing as the earth seemed to still around him.
After a long moment, his eyes snapped open, and he pointed to a section near the eastern tree line.
"There," he rumbled, his voice carrying to Blackthorn.
"The ground is soft, treacherous. The post is weak. It will be the first to fall."
Sven, sandy hair and warm features, his chainmail shining under a brown cloak clasped with a polished clover sigil, turned to Evander.
"You heard the Captain. Point me to your best archers and steadiest spearmen." The two knights became a single unit, their years of training taking over.
Sven's voice rang out, clear and commanding, integrating the weary militia into a cohesive defense.
"Archers, line the wall! Spearmen, form ranks behind the gate!"
The villagers, seeing their confident energy, found a shred of courage, their movements less frantic, more purposeful, as Sven's well-kept boots crunched across the dirt, his broadsword steady at his waist.
Ash looked to Blackthorn, unsure where to fit in, his heart racing.
"Don't stand there like a post," Blackthorn grunted, not even glancing his way. "You have strength. Use it. Help them barricade that weak spot Borin found. Now."
The order was a relief. Ash moved to a pile of timber and heavy crates, joining a team of villagers.
He hefted weights that made others strain, his months of brutal training paying off.
He worked silently, but his presence—a Knight of the Clover Kingdom laboring alongside them—bolstered the villagers' spirits more than any speech could.
A young man beside him, barely older than Ash, managed a nod of thanks, his hands steadier as they stacked a crate.
As fortifications continued, the day was almost over, Lyra approached Blackthorn, her lithe frame sharp-eyed, bright pink hair tied in a tight braid gleaming under the fading light.
Her sleek, deep green leather tunic and fitted pants moved with her precise steps, a short gray cloak flowing behind, a slim dagger at her thigh.
"The light's almost gone," she said, her voice low and steady.
"I should go. See what they're doing out there before the full dark hides them completely."
Blackthorn gave a sharp nod. "Be a shadow. Report back. Do not engage."
Lyra melted away from the torchlight, slipping between two buildings and disappearing into the growing dusk without a sound.
Her absence felt more ominous than her presence.
Princess Elis did not involve herself in the military details.
Instead, she walked toward the longhouse where the most terrified civilians—children, the elderly—were hiding.
Her blue dress was practical, auburn braid tucked under a cloak, green eyes calm but strained.
She knelt beside a little girl clutching her mother's skirts, speaking softly, her hand gentle.
Ash, hauling a crate, caught the moment, unable to hear her words but seeing the girl's tense shoulders ease, a flicker of trust in her eyes.
Elis looked up, catching Ash watching, and offered a small, strained but genuine smile—a quiet moment of solidarity before the storm.
Ash nodded, his spark humming faintly as he returned to his work.
As full dark settled, Lyra materialized beside Blackthorn, making Ash jump.
Her report was cold, precise, each fact a drop of ice water.
"The forest is a tomb. Nothing moves," she said, her voice cutting through the night. She paused, eyes narrowing. "I found the remains of the Briar's End patrol. They weren't killed. They were… processed. Weapons and armor stripped with surgical precision. No bodies, just… stains."
Ash's stomach churned, his grip tightening on a crate.
Lyra continued, voice steady. "The tracks are everywhere. They've surrounded us. They're not hiding. They're waiting." She held out her final discovery: a small, tarnished pocket watch, its glass cracked but ticking faintly, caked in mud.
"This was placed on a stump at the tree line. Like a marker. Or a warning."
The pocket watch hit Ash like a physical blow, a mechanical relic from his dead world that didn't belong in this place of wood and iron.
Nausea swept over him, disorientation and homesickness crashing in. This world was supposed to be different, untouched by that one. Are there people like me outside? Are they leading these things? Is this a trap for me? Paranoia clawed at him, his spark flickering erratically, hands trembling as he set the crate down.
Blackthorn, his green cloak with a faded clover still, scarred leather bracers dull, katana gleaming, took the watch from Lyra, his jaw tight.
He fixed his gaze on Ash, not with pity but grim assessment. "They're playing with us. Trying to unnerve us," he said, his voice commanding.
"Fear is a weapon. Don't let it in. Control your breathing. Your power is tied to your focus. Lose that, and you're dead tonight."
Ash nodded, forcing his breath to steady, his spark settling.
He glanced at Finn, tall and muscular, shaved head, hard jaw, his sleeveless dark blue jerkin over a clean linen shirt, rugged pants, heavy boots, a short axe at his hip.
Finn's steady gaze met Ash's, a silent nod. "Keep that fire, kid," Finn grunted. "You'll need it tonight." Ash managed a tight smile, his resolve firming.
The fortifications were finally as complete as they could be. The village was now an armed camp, waiting.
Borin's palisade stood firm, each post tested by his earth-sensing touch.
Sven's militia held key points, fire barrels ready, faces grim. Lyra's scouts patrolled, her pink braid a faint flash.
Finn's hitters waited, axes gleaming. The villagers were hidden in the longhouse cellar, their whispers silenced, the air heavy with fear.
Ash stood at the weak eastern post he'd helped barricade, gripping his short sword, his fitted tunic and sturdy pants a mark of his role, his boots steady.
The silence was suffocating, the air thick, like it was holding its breath, torches flickering as if afraid. His spark hummed faintly.
The watch lingered in his mind, a puzzle he couldn't solve, but Blackthorn's words anchored him. He was here, fighting for these people.
CRACK.
The sound wasn't a scream. It was the reinforced eastern palisade splintering inward.
A section of the wall—the very post Borin had warned was weak—exploded into a storm of wood chips. Not from a battering ram. From something moving with impossible, brutal speed.
Through the breach, a thing lunged.
It was all limbs and nightmare—a grotesque fusion of what might have been a wolf and a scorpion, stitched together with glistening, black sinew. It moved in a jerking, terrifying blur, pouncing on the nearest militiaman.
The man didn't have time to scream. The creature's stinger lashed out, and he crumpled, his body seizing before going horribly still.
Time froze for a single, heart-stopping second.
Then, chaos.
Sven's roar echoed across the yard. "SHIELDS! NOW!"