The golden sun dipped low in the western sky, casting long, jagged shadows over the horizon as Renard's army finally laid eyes on Ebonreach. Its blackened towers stood stark against the dying light, grim sentinels that had withstood decades of wars. Though the march had been gruelling, slowed by ambushes, counter-ambushes, and the cunning harassment of Lord Marvin's guerrilla tactics, the prince's host remained intact. Their losses were not negligible—nearly two thousand men cut down in the forests and hills—but it could have been far worse. Had Renard not curbed his more reckless lords and listened to the counsel of Brandford and Aleric, the campaign might have collapsed before Ebonreach's walls were even sighted.
By contrast, Duke Roderic's strength had bled away. Once proud and numerous, his host was reduced to a paltry ten thousand. Desertion gnawed at his ranks daily, starving peasants fled under the cover of night, mercenaries abandoned his banners for lack of pay, and Marvin's ambushes—once sharp and lethal—now faltered under constant countermeasures from Aleric and Renard.
That evening, Renard called his captains to council. In the firelit pavilion, the great map of Ebonreach lay unrolled across a sturdy oak table, markers showing the prince's encampment fanned around the fortress like a tightening noose. The lords spoke of strategies, siegecraft, and supply lines, their voices blending with the murmur of soldiers setting camp outside. Sentinels patrolled the edges of the field, and engineers began erecting wooden palisades, hammering stakes into the earth. Renard's face, calm but watchful, betrayed little of his thoughts. He knew the Duke would not wait idly for a siege to choke him.
Meanwhile, across the river, chaos reigned in Roderic's tent.
The Duke paced like a caged wolf, his heavy cloak dragging across the floor as his voice rose to a shrill cry."Ruined! All ruined! We have lost half our strength before even setting foot on the battlefield! Marvin, your 'brilliant tactics' have bought us nothing but desertion and despair!"
Marvin, the Grand Tactician, stood cold and unyielding, hands clasped behind his back. "My lord, our position is dire. The prince outnumbers us; his men are disciplined, and his commanders do not take the bait so easily as others. Our only hope is prudence—fortify Ebonreach, conserve strength, and await relief from Kandaria. I have some connections. Recklessness will only hasten our—"
"Enough!" Roderic snapped, face flushed. "Do not lecture me on prudence when the walls close in tighter each day. We must strike! Strike while the boy-king and his pet upstarts still make camp. If we cripple him tonight, his siege will falter. If we fail—" he faltered, eyes twitching, "then we are already dead men."
At last, he turned sharply to another figure in the tent: Ser Kain, the realm's most feared knight. The man stood towering in a gleaming half-plate, silent as a statue, only his piercing eyes betraying the storm within."You will lead the raid," Roderic commanded, his voice trembling with desperate resolve. "Five thousand picked men. Burn their camp, slaughter their horses, cut down as many lords as you can. Sow chaos in their lines before the siege can begin. You will bring me victory, Ser Kain, or you will not return at all."
Marvin exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "This is folly. If they are prepared, you throw away half of what remains of your strength."
But the Duke waved him off. "Better to gamble with fire than to choke on ash."
Back in Renard's camp, Aleric's instincts kept the army vigilant.
For days, he had argued for precautions—fortified barricades of sharpened stakes ringing the encampment, sentries doubled in the woods, regiments ordered to sleep in armour with weapons ready. Brandford, ever the loyal supporter, echoed his reasoning in the council. "Even if the Duke does not attack," he had said, "the cost is nothing. But if he does, and we are unprepared, the cost will be everything."
Renard had listened, nodding with that quiet gravity of his. And so, as night descended over the plain, the camp did not fall into careless slumber. Torches burned at every gate. Hidden pits and barricades waited to stall cavalry. Soldiers rested with spears within reach, their eyes half-shut but their ears pricked to the night.
Beyond the dark line of trees, unseen to most, Ser Kain's five thousand moved like shadows. The greatest knight of the realm led them, his sword strapped across his back, his armour muffled beneath blackened cloth. Their breath misted in the cool night air, their boots crunching softly against the earth.
But the camp they approached was no vulnerable mass of sleeping men.
It was a fortress waiting for them.
And as the first owl screeched in the distance, signalling the dead of night, the clash of two strategies—desperation against foresight—was about to begin.
The night broke open with fire.
Ser Kain's regiment surged through the trees like a flood, screaming war cries as they burst upon the barricades. Arrows hissed in the dark, torches snapped from their poles, and the wooden stakes shuddered under the impact of charging men. For a heartbeat, the camp flared with chaos—steel clashing, flames licking tents, and horses neighing in terror.
But then the trap closed.
From the woods to their flanks, horns blared and war cries split the night. Companies of Renard's soldiers erupted from the shadows, spears bristling, shields locked, as they surged into the sides of the raiders.
"Ambush! They've surrounded us!" shouted a duke's man, his eyes wide with terror as arrows rained down.
Another soldier, blood already streaming down his arm, spat into the mud. "Curses—they tricked us! We're the prey!"
The raiders' front ranks buckled as Crown Prince Renard's men poured from the barricades, pikes stabbing, blades flashing under the torchlight.
A sergeant of the duke's regiment tried to rally his men, swinging his axe high. "Hold the line! Push forward, damn you! Cut through before they close the noose!"
But the line never reformed. A sudden charge of cavalry smashed into their flank, scattering them like straw in the wind.
On the opposite side, Crown Prince Renard's own voice could be heard above the din, steady and commanding: "Press them! Do not give ground—they are trapped like vermin!"
The morale of the raiders wavered. Some dropped weapons and turned back toward the trees, only to find more of Renard's soldiers hemming them in.
A young knight of the duke's host gasped as he parried blow after blow, his voice breaking. "This was supposed to be a raid! They were waiting for us all along!"
"Shut your mouth and fight!" his captain bellowed, even as a spear burst through his chest, cutting his command short.
All around, chaos reigned—men screaming, steel clashing, fire spreading—but the truth settled like iron upon the invaders. The prey had turned hunters, and the hunters were cornered animals.
Ser Kain, however, did not falter.
He fought like a storm given flesh. His massive sword whistled through the night, hacking through shields, cleaving men as if their armour were parchment. One soldier's scream was cut short as the knight's blade split him from collar to hip. Another knight, in full steel, tried to parry, but Kain's brute strength shattered his guard, caving helm and skull in one crushing blow.
Blood spattered across his blackened armour as he roared, eyes wild, teeth bared like a beast loosed from chains. Even the hardened veterans of Renard's host recoiled before him.
"Gods above," muttered one sergeant, watching men fall around him. "He's not a man—he's a monster!"
And indeed, it seemed no wall of flesh could hold him. The more he was pressed, the more furious he became, his sword sweeping in arcs that felled three men at once, his boots stomping corpses into the mud.
At the barricades, Brandford's eyes narrowed as he watched the carnage. He leaned toward Aleric, voice heavy with both respect and grim determination.
"It's time for us to join the battle. With me, boy—I might need your help in this one."
Aleric nodded firmly, adrenaline burning through his veins. He raised his hand, signalling, and Jaren was at his side in an instant, sword drawn, shield ready.
The three men cut their way through the melee, their presence like a rallying cry to the soldiers nearby. "Make way!" Brandford barked, and men stepped aside, forming a rough circle around the clash that was about to erupt.
Now the two armies fought not just for survival, but for the space around this singular duel—two champions and a youth against the greatest knight of the realm.
Ser Kain turned, his blood-soaked blade dripping red, and fixed his wild eyes upon them. His chest heaved like a hunting hound's, each breath a growl.
"So," he snarled, voice like gravel, "more lambs for the slaughter."
Brandford stepped forward, raising his greatsword in salute. "A beast you may be, Kain, but beasts can be slain. Aleric! Jaren! Stay close."
With a roar, Ser Kain charged.
His first strike crashed against Brandford's blade, sparks flying as steel screamed against steel. The sheer weight of the blow forced the seasoned commander back a step, muscles straining, but Brandford did not yield. He pushed forward, locking Kain's weapon, before Aleric darted in with a quick thrust toward the knight's flank.
Kain twisted, the blade only grazing his armour, and backhanded with monstrous force. Aleric barely ducked in time, the wind of the strike grazing his hair.
Jaren leapt to his brother's defence, shield braced. When one of Kain's men tried to interfere, Jaren cut him down in a spray of blood, planting himself firmly at Aleric's side. "Focus on him!" Jaren barked, his young face set like iron. "No one gets through me."
And so the circle tightened.
"Kill him!"
"Stand fast!"
"Ser Kain! Ser Kain!"
The ring of steel echoed under the black sky, and the night raid had become more than a gamble—it had become a legend in the making.
An epic 2v1 duel was about to begin!