The first sign something was wrong came when they crested the hill overlooking Harrowick.
Baron Dorian Blackthorn raised his gauntleted hand, bringing the column of a hundred knights to a halt. Below them, where the peaceful village of Harrowick should have spread across the valley, only blackened ruins remained. No smoke rose from cottage chimneys, no children played in the streets. The village that the Blackthorns had protected for centuries was nothing but charred timbers and ash.
"My lord," Captain Gareth whispered, his weathered face pale. "We're too late."
But Dorian's eyes were scanning the destruction, his tactical mind processing details that chilled him to the bone. The devastation was too complete, too thorough. This hadn't happened overnight.
"This didn't fall today," he said grimly. "Look at the burn patterns, the way every building has been razed. Harrowick has been dead for days."
The implications hit like a physical blow. The messenger who had brought word of the attack—the desperate, bloodied man who had collapsed in Northwatch's halls—had lied. The village they had ridden to save had already been destroyed before the call for help ever reached them.
"It was a trap," Dorian breathed, the pieces falling into place. "We've been led into a—"
That was when the fog began to rise.
It came from nowhere—thick, unnatural mist that boiled up from the ground like steam from a cauldron. Within moments, it had swallowed the valley, reducing visibility to mere yards. The air grew heavy, oppressive, tinged with the sulfurous stench of demonic magic.
"Demon sorcery!" Captain Gareth shouted, his voice muffled by the supernatural mist. "Form ranks! Stay together!"
But the fog was too thick, too disorienting. Knights called out to each other, their voices seeming to come from all directions at once. Horses whinnied in fear, their instincts screaming warnings their riders couldn't see.
Then the war-horns sounded from within the mist—deep, guttural notes that spoke of hunger and malice.
From the swirling gray came shapes—twisted forms with burning red eyes, claws that gleamed in the unnatural gloom. Dozens of demons materialized from the fog as if the mist itself had given them birth. They moved with perfect coordination, their ambush planned to the smallest detail.
"Shields!" Dorian roared, his voice cutting through the supernatural murk. "Form square! No one breaks formation!"
The knights obeyed with the discipline of veterans, but the fog made everything chaos. They could barely see their own hands, let alone coordinate a proper defense. Demons struck from all directions—a claw here, a blade there, then vanishing back into the mist before any counterattack could find them.
And through it all, a voice rolled across the valley like thunder—deep, ancient, filled with malevolent amusement.
"Baron Dorian Blackthorn. The Wall of the North. You are far from your precious fortress now."
From the heart of the fog strode a figure that made the mist itself seem to recoil. A demon general, nine feet tall, its body a grotesque fusion of muscle and bone armor. In its clawed hands, it carried a massive glaive that burned with black fire, the flames clearly visible even through the supernatural murk.
"My men had nothing to do with this," Dorian called back, his greatsword already in hand. "Let them go, and I'll face you alone."
The demon general's laughter was like the sound of breaking bones. "How noble. How pointless. Your fortress burns even now, Baron. Your son dies as we speak. There will be no Blackthorn line to remember your sacrifice."
The words hit Dorian harder than any weapon could. Adrian. His twelve-year-old son, left behind in what they thought was safety. If this demon spoke truth—if Northwatch was under attack while its best defenders were trapped here in this cursed fog—
"You lie," Dorian snarled, but ice had settled in his chest.
"Do I? My brother wore your messenger's face well, don't you think? While you chase shadows in my mist, he carves your bloodline from existence."
Rage exploded through Dorian like wildfire. The careful control he had maintained for decades shattered in an instant. His greatsword blazed to life—not with the steady white flame of discipline, but with something deeper.
Emerald fire roared along the blade's edge, its light cutting through the demon fog like a beacon.
The knights around him gasped. They had followed Dorian for years, but none had ever seen his true sword spirit. The green flame spoke of protection carried to its absolute limit, of a will that would endure any cost to defend what mattered most.
"You want the Wall of Blackthorn?" Dorian's voice was thunder and steel. "Then come and break it."
The demon general charged through the mist, its glaive trailing dark fire. Dorian met it head-on, his emerald blade clashing against black flame in an explosion that lit the entire valley and burned away the fog in a sphere around them. The shockwave knocked lesser demons from their feet and sent horses rearing.
Around them, the battle erupted in earnest. Knights fought with desperate fury, their formations broken by the supernatural mist, but their courage unshaken. Swords rang against claws, arrows whistled through the gray murk, and men died with their lord's name on their lips.
But at the center of the maelstrom, two forces collided again and again. The demon general's strength was monstrous, each blow capable of shattering stone. Its glaive moved with inhuman speed, black fire leaving trails of shadow even in the fog.
Yet Dorian matched it blow for blow. His emerald flame carved through the demon's defenses, each strike precise, controlled, devastatingly effective. This was the skill that had held the northern border for twenty years, refined by countless battles into something approaching art.
"Impressive," the general hissed as they locked weapons, pressing against each other with titanic force. "But futile. Even if you survive this day, your line dies. Your fortress burns. Your legacy crumbles to ash."
"My legacy," Dorian growled, his emerald fire flaring brighter, burning away more of the unnatural mist, "is that I never yield."
He twisted, breaking the lock, and drove his burning blade deep into the demon's chest. The general screamed as emerald fire consumed it from within, its black flames guttering like a snuffed candle. As it died, the supernatural fog began to dissipate, revealing the true scope of the ambush.
Demons everywhere. Hundreds of them, surrounding the valley, their trap finally exposed.
But even as their leader fell, the demon army pressed closer. Too many. Far too many.
Dorian stood over the general's corpse, his emerald blade still blazing, and surveyed the battlefield. Half his knights were down. The survivors were pressed back to back, their formation crumbling under endless assault.
They would not see another sunset.
But perhaps—perhaps they could buy time. Perhaps some word of this treachery could reach Northwatch. Perhaps Adrian could escape whatever trap awaited there.
"On me!" Dorian roared, raising his burning blade high. "We are the Wall! And walls do not fall!"
The remaining knights rallied to his call, their own sword spirits blazing in answer. They would die here, in this cursed valley, far from home. But they would die as Blackthorns—standing firm against the dark.
The demon horde surged forward through the dissipating mist for the final assault.
And in the distance, smoke continued to rise from the direction of Northwatch.