The fog had finally lifted, but the cost of victory lay heavy on the survivors.
Baron Dorian Blackthorn sat his destrier at the edge of what had once been Harrowick village, his emerald sword spirit long since faded to memory. Blood seeped through the rents in his armor, and exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like a physical burden. Behind him, barely sixty knights remained of the hundred who had ridden out from Northwatch that morning.
The ambush had been brutal. Even with the demon general dead and his forces scattered, the price had been written in the bodies they'd left behind in that cursed valley. Good men. Knights who had served the Blackthorn name with honor. Now they were ash and memory.
"My lord," Captain Gareth said quietly, his own armor bearing fresh scars. "The village."
Dorian lifted his gaze to the ruins spread before them. In the clear afternoon light, the devastation was even worse than it had appeared from the hilltop. Every building had been razed to its foundation. The well that had served the village for three centuries was choked with debris and ash. The small shrine where generations of villagers had prayed for protection bore claw marks that spoke of deliberate desecration.
Bodies lay scattered throughout the ruins—men, women, children. Some had been cut down as they fled, others had died defending their homes with nothing but farm tools against demonic claws. The sight of it settled like lead in Dorian's chest.
"Four hundred years," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Four hundred years the Blackthorns have protected this place."
Captain Gareth dismounted, kneeling beside the body of an old man Dorian recognized—Thomas the Miller, who had ground grain for Northwatch's garrison for decades. The knight's weathered face was grim as he closed the miller's eyes.
"They fought hard, my lord. See the demon bodies among them? They didn't die easy."
It was small comfort. Dorian swung down from his horse, his legs nearly buckling as the full weight of exhaustion hit him. He walked through the ruins, past homes where he had shared meals with families, past workshops where craftsmen had forged tools for Northwatch's needs. All of it gone. All of it failed.
"The survivors," one of his knights called from near the forest edge. "I found tracks leading north. Looks like some escaped into the woods."
Dorian felt a faint spark of hope kindle in his chest. "How many?"
"Hard to say, my lord. Maybe two dozen sets of prints, including children. They fled before the worst of it."
Two dozen out of nearly two hundred souls. The mathematics of failure carved themselves deeper into Dorian's heart. But twenty-four people still lived because his family had protected this place for centuries. Twenty-four people who might rebuild, who might remember what Harrowick had been.
*"Sir," another knight approached, holding something in his hands. A child's wooden toy—a knight on horseback, carved with obvious love and skill. "Found this in what's left of the carpenter's shop."
Dorian took the toy, his gauntleted fingers surprisingly gentle as he turned it over. The craftsmanship was excellent, the detail remarkable. A toy made for a child who would never play with it again.
"We'll bury them," Dorian said finally. "All of them. Mark the graves. When this is over, when we've rebuilt, they'll be remembered properly."
"My lord," Captain Gareth said carefully, "perhaps we should consider returning to Northwatch. We've been gone since dawn, and with the losses we've taken..."
The words hung unfinished in the air, but Dorian understood. They were thinking of home, of the fortress they'd left with only a skeleton garrison. Of the families and loved ones who might even now be wondering why no word had come.
But Dorian shook his head, surprising them. "Captain Marsh knows his duty. The walls of Northwatch have never fallen, not in four centuries. Thirty good knights and the fortress's defenses are enough to hold against any raid until we return."
He turned to survey the ruins once more, his scarred face set with determination. "Besides, we have work to finish here. The demon general spoke of his 'brother'—the one who wore our messenger's face. If that creature succeeded in its mission, then our people need to know they were betrayed. We track the surviving demons, ensure none escape to threaten other villages, then we return home."
The knights exchanged glances, some clearly wanting to argue. But none dared question their lord's judgment. Dorian Blackthorn had held the northern border longer than any of them had been alive. If he said Northwatch could hold, then it would hold.
"Besides," Dorian added, a trace of pride entering his voice, "I left my son behind those walls. Adrian may be only twelve, but he carries Blackthorn blood. He'll watch over things while we're gone."
The thought of Adrian brought a faint smile to his lips despite the devastation around them. His youngest son, so serious for his age, so observant. The boy who could read tactical situations like a veteran and asked questions that cut to the heart of strategy. Whatever was happening at Northwatch, Adrian would be learning from it, growing stronger.
"Two hours," Dorian commanded. "We bury the dead, track any demon survivors in the area, then we ride home. I want to be back at Northwatch before the gates close for the night."
As his men set about their grim tasks, Dorian remained standing in the center of the ruined village, the child's toy still in his hand. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the debris, and for a moment he could almost see Harrowick as it had been—children playing in the streets, craftsmen at their benches, families gathered around their hearths.
All of it protected by the promise his ancestors had made. All of it failed because of his trust in a lying demon's words.
But Northwatch still stood. His family still lived. And somewhere in those ancient walls, his son was safe, learning what it meant to be a Blackthorn.
The thought sustained him as he knelt among the ashes and began the work of laying the dead to rest.