02:00 a.m. - At Behind Drakensvale Army
As the moon hung low over the Eryndral Forest, casting silvery beams that pierced the thick canopies, Lord Draemyr moved like a wraith through the shadows. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of loam and decomposing leaves, a rich aroma that hinted at the vastness of life concealed within the forest. He led his men, a cadre of 5,000 seasoned soldiers, each stepping in sync with the silent resolve that enveloped them. Stealth was their ally, the night their cloak, and they needed every advantage against the formidable force that lay ahead.
Draemyr's mind was a storm, battling thoughts of glory and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. As a lord of the Aurelthorn, he had witnessed the ravages of war firsthand—the loss of kin and allies, the songs of victory turned into laments. This time, however, he was determined to seize the moment. With a deft hand, he adjusted the grip on his well-worn sword, its hilt scarred yet polished, a testament to battles past and the fight yet to come.
"Stay low and quiet," Draemyr commanded, his voice a mere whisper yet carrying the force of command. His presence was magnetic, each word wrapping around the soldiers like a palpable aura. Their eyes flickered toward him, filled with trust and eagerness to prove themselves.
The path was narrow, overgrown with thorns and brambles, the forest teeming with the chorus of night creatures. As they crawled deeper into the woodlands, the tension in the air thickened. The distant sounds of battle—and the chaos emerging from the village of Eryndral—echoed faintly, fueling their relentless advance.
Draemyr halted briefly, raising an arm above his head. The men around him stopped, sensing the change in the atmosphere. He peered into the depths of the forest; it felt alive with secrets, shadows creeping between the shadows, as insidious as fate itself. This wasn't just an ordinary ambush; this was a test of resolve, a chance to reclaim honor against the Drakensvale.
"Move in tight," he instructed, lowering his voice even further. "The Drakensvale will underestimate our numbers, focused as they are on the rewards of this victory. But we will be their reckoning in the devastating wake of their arrogance."
As they gathered together, Draemyr detailed his strategy to those closest to him. "Once we reach the ridge overlooking the battlefield, we'll remain concealed. When the Drakensvale engage with Aurelthorn's main force at dawn, we'll strike from behind while they're distracted. We might be fewer in number, but we have the element of surprise on our side."
He paused, assessing the faces around him—furrowed brows and determined eyes. For a moment the forest seemed to hold its breath. Then one of his scouts, voice suddenly thin, leaned forward and hissed, "My lord… look."
Draemyr followed the gesture. Through the trees, a shape moved like rolling night, and a chill crawled along his spine. The name rose from somewhere in his throat before he could stop it: "By the old oaths… is that—"
"—the Umbrathorax," the scout finished, barely louder than a leaf's fall. The word fell among the men like a stone thrown into still water; ripples of superstition and dread fanned across their faces. Even Draemyr's jaw tightened at the sound. He had read the sagas, heard the campfire whispers of devourers and shadow-beasts, but to see the legend coalesce from shadow into shape was another thing entirely.
For a heartbeat he felt the old hunger for glory waver beneath something colder: respect, and a nascent fear. "So it is," he breathed, then forced his voice back into command. "Hold yourselves. Do not cry out. Move as one—silent and sure."
A lieutenant at his elbow swallowed, eyes wide. "My lord, if that thing falls upon us—"
"—it will retreat at dawn," Draemyr cut in, steadying his tone with the iron of a man who would not let panic govern his command. "The tales say it binds to night and shadow. That is both danger and mercy." He met each man's gaze in turn, molding their fear into resolve. "We will not be children to superstition. We will be the blade that strikes while it feeds on their terror. When the Drakensvale falter under that shadow, we will be the hand that writes the end of their arrogance."
Murmurs of fierce agreement threaded through the ranks, but the hush that followed was different now—less the naive quiet of soldiers bent on simple plunder and more the concentrated silence of men about to commit to something grave. Draemyr felt the weight of it, the double-edged nature of their chance: a legendary force that bent the battlefield to its will, and an opening born of the very chaos it created.
"Move in tight," he instructed, voice low but unwavering. "We take the ridge. We wait for dawn's first false light—then we strike."
He held his men there, choosing patience over vanity: let the Umbrathorax unmake their formations and spread terror through Drakensvale host, and when the enemy lay fractured and reeling at first light, Aurelthorn would fall upon them like a blade—swift, merciless, and final.
Draemyr crouched low against the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, its bark carved with countless runes—forgotten sigils of protection and power that had long since lost their meaning to the world above. The air was thick with the musk of damp earth, and a heavy, earthy scent filled his nostrils as he observed the flickering lights of the Drakensvale camp in the distance. The chaotic sounds of battle echoed intermittently through the forest, reminding him of the storm approaching, both outside and within his own heart.
This was not the first time Draemyr had stood at the precipice of war. In the past, his family had fought bravely in countless skirmishes against the expanding Drakensvale Empire. As a boy, he would sit at his father's feet and listen to the stories of noble knights and valiant deeds, tales that fueled the fires of ambition in his young heart. He had trained for years, draped in armor that had once belonged to his ancestors, hoping to carve his name into the annals of history.
But the wars his forefathers fought were different—a primal struggle for honor, glory, and justice, rather than the cruel earnestness of survival that now surrounded him. Each battle they faced had been charged with a collective purpose, birthed from a fierce pride in their kingdom. As Draemyr grew, the tales morphed into grim realities; the Drakensvale had become more than just another enemy—they were a ravenous force, consuming everything in their path, greedily extending their territory while extinguishing that of others.
Draemyr remembered the day it all changed, the day King Aldric had summoned his council to discuss an urgent threat. They had gathered not in their grand castle but in the remains of the village of Eryndral, reduced to ash under the relentless onslaught of Drakensvale legions. The faces of those he had known, friends who had once explored the verdant fields beyond their fortified walls, were now bleak reminders of the price they had paid.
In the years that followed, Draemyr had watched the kingdom of Aurelthorn fracture—nobility divided by ambitions and cowardice—a kingdom wracked by internal strife that left them vulnerable to the threat lurking just beyond their borders. Those who had once fought together now found themselves at odds over whether to engage the Drakensvale openly or seek an alternative path. As alliances shifted, the fabric of the kingdom unraveled, leaving Draemyr with the weight of his family's legacy resting on his shoulders.
Yet, as he peered through the darkness toward the approaching Drakensvale army, a cycle of determination ignited within him—a refusal to let his kingdom be swallowed whole. Ambition rushed through his veins alongside the bitter memories of loss. The strategy he had devised was forged from a lifetime of lessons learned, both in practice and in painful reality—he would not allow missteps to plague his men like they had crippled past generations.
Returning to the present, he scanned the soldiers around him, their faces set with resolve, ready to face what lay ahead. "Remember," Draemyr said, voice steady and commanding, "we are the vanguard that will shift the balance; with the element of surprise on our side, we can turn the tide of this war. Seize the moment when Aurelthorn's main force engages them, and we will strike hard. We fight not just for glory, but for the lives lost who deserve to be avenged."
His words flowed like molten iron, solidifying their collective hope and determination, forging them into a united front that would stand against the looming shadows of their past. They would reclaim what was theirs, not out of vengeance alone, but for the sake of future generations who would read their names as heroes.
With renewed vigor coursing through them, Draemyr's hand tightened around his sword's hilt as dawn began to break, painting the horizon with hues of gold and blood-red. As the sun approached, so too did the reckoning they had been waiting for—a chance to rewrite not just their kingdom's fate, but their own stories forever intertwined in the annals of time, reflecting both tragedy and triumph.
5:00 a.m. - At Front Wall Eryndral Village
its slumber, but the bloody chaos wrought by the Umbrathorax had already left its mark on the battlefield. Hues of gold and crimson spilled across the sky, mingling with the acrid smoke that rose from the remnants of what had once been the pride of Drakensvale.
The clash had raged fiercely from midnight until dawn, an unholy symphony of roars, screams, and the clash of steel reverberating through the forest. The spectacle of the Umbrathorax had initially struck fear into the hearts of the Drakensvale soldiers, but as the creature lunged among them, it became a grim reaper, cutting through their ranks mercilessly. By now, the numbers of the Drakensvale army had decreased alarmingly, with nearly two-thirds of their total forces lying in the dirt, victims of the chaos unleashed by the monstrous beast and the swift strike of Lord Draemyr's forces.
General Varrik, who had once felt invincible leading her 20,000-strong army, now found herself overtaken by a swell of anger and disbelief. Frantic orders echoed through the remnants of his troops as he clutched his sword tightly, surveying the panicked soldiers scrambling to form a semblance of order.
"Rally to me!" Varrik shouted, trying to pierce the fog of fear enveloping his men. Him led the charge, his resolve steady, as they fought their way through the remnants of Draemyr's army. "We break free now, or we perish here together!"
His voice pulled some from their despair as they forged a path toward the outskirts of Eryndral. But it was becoming increasingly clear that many of his knights had fallen, and he was losing precious time.
To his left, General Lyscia engaged fiercely, her usual composure cracking under the weight of chaos. "We have to push through! This must be the last stand!" she yelled, firing arrows at the retreating Draemyr soldiers.
Yet before Seraphina could even consider the possibility of regrouping her forces, they were met with a wave of Draemyr's men rushing back into the fight, emboldened by their leader's tactics and the chaos surrounding them.
"Fall back!" one of her knights cried, desperately trying to defend himself as the onslaught pressed closer, shouts ringing louder with each passing breath.
"Not yet!" Seraphina bellowed, defiance burning like a wildfire in her chest. She fought through the tide, blade striking true against the enemy, but she felt pain bloom in her side as a spear finally found its mark. Gritting her teeth, she ignored it, knowing every second counted.
Meanwhile, General Varrik realized the tide was turning. "This fight is lost! We must extract what remains of our forces and live to fight another day!" he commanded, grabbing Lyscia by the arm as she faltered, her eyes darting between the fight before her and the retreat that loomed back into the forest.
"Leave them!" she hissed, shaking his grip. "We cannot abandon them now!"
"Before we are crushed!" Varrik countered, determination coursing through his words. "You know what's at stake!"
The urgency rang through her walls of fear, and with a final look back at Seraphina, Lyscia nodded sharply. "Then let's retreat!" Together, Varrik and Lyscia began herding the remaining soldiers away, despite the chaos swirling around them.
Seraphina, now breathing heavily with each swing of her sword, suddenly found herself battling both the enemy and the waves of doubt crashing over her. At that moment, she caught Draemyr's piercing gaze across the battlefield—a look of fierce determination flared in his eyes.
"Is that all you have, Seraphina?" he taunted from amid the tide of his renewed army, his weapon glimmering in the dawn's light. "You were once a bane to my kind, but here now, you can only falter and fade!"
Fueling the fire within her, she slid closer to Draemyr, dodging an enemy's advance as she rallied her remaining knights. "This battle is not over, Draemyr!" she shouted, pushing through the crowd. "You may claim many lives today, but you will never claim the spirit of my people!"
Draemyr sneered but took her words with a measured nod, announcing loudly enough for his men to hear, "So be it, but this will be your last stand!"
As they clashed, Seraphina and Draemyr bore witness to the reckoning of their shifting positions on the battlefield. Their blades met, a thunderous sound echoing against the chaos around them. Seraphina felt a fierce resolve surge, knowing this was her moment to break Draemyr's consolidation before he seized the victory. She danced on the edge of danger, channeling every ounce of her training, striking hard against his skill.
But Draemyr had his strength as well. His movement was calculated and smooth, countering her strikes
General Varrik soldiers were scattered, desperately clinging to the remnants of a plan. Yet, in a brilliant maneuver, he led a group past Draemyr's encircling forces, With a deft final strike, he broke free from the clutches of his foe, narrowly slipping into the forest's shadowed embrace, leaving echoes of his defiant shout hanging in the air.
Lyscia, however, wasn't so fortunate. Hemmed in by Draemyr's soldiers, she fought with unmatched ferocity, deflecting blow after blow with precision. But, as the tide turned against her, overwhelming hands wrested the sword from her grasp. Her fierce gaze never wavered, even as Draemyr's men encircled her.
12:00 p.m. - At the Village Inn in Eryndral Forest
Ryan blinked awake, the dull throb of fatigue weighing heavily upon him. The comforting scent of wood and earth enveloped him, but as he looked around, the familiar walls of Eryndral's inn registered in his mind—a sanctuary from the chaos of the night before. People murmured softly nearby, casting curious glances in his direction, their eyes betraying a mix of concern and hope.
"The headman has woken up," one villager said, their voice soft yet laden with expectation.
Ryan lifted his left hand, a sudden action drawing his attention. He clenched it against his head, wincing as the pain pulsed beneath his fingertips. But then, like a spark igniting a fire, realization struck him: his left hand was whole again. The thrill of joy washed over him as laughter bubbled up, bright and buoyant amidst the somber atmosphere.
The villagers exchanged looks, confusion etched on their faces as they witnessed his jubilance. "What time is it?" Ryan inquired, pulling himself into a seated position, conscious of the swell of emotions playing across the room.
"It's morning," the villagers replied in unison, their voices mingling, creating a chorus of bittersweet notes.
Ryan glanced around but noticed the absence of many familiar faces. The room felt quieter, almost hollow. He instinctively reached for his phone, the comforting weight of his tech a reminder of the life he once lived. September 10, 2025, 12:10 PM. A wave of disbelief washed over him as he studied the screen. He chuckled in disbelief, reveling in the fact that the battery appeared full. Somehow, in the surreal chaos of his adventures, he had managed to keep it charged.
With renewed purpose, he decided to call Jonas. The bright spark of hope kindled within him, bolstered by his prior successes. He could hardly wait to share this miraculous return.
But when he spoke the name aloud, the room fell eerily silent, a heavy blanket of sorrow draping over the cheerful atmosphere.
"Jonas is dead," a villager finally uttered, the words slicing through Ryan with all the force of a sharpened blade.
A numbness seized Ryan, the weight of disbelief anchoring him down. Jonas—how could he be dead? The memories flashed through his mind—the man who cherished life, who gifted him healing and guidance. The man whose hands had saved him many times from the life-threatening chaos of their world.
"How could that be?" Ryan's voice cracked, desperation and sorrow blending into a haunting melody. "He was with his family! I… I saved him!"
Confused glances darted among the villagers. "Well, Jonas saved you from the Knights of Drakensvale," one of them began, their voice tremulous but resolute. "He was cut down in your place. Then… he vomited and lost consciousness."
The imagery crashed into Ryan's mind, dark and vivid—a tableau of violence he had fought hard to forget. The visceral memory of his arm being struck by a knight's sword flooded back, slicing through his newfound joy like a blade. Each detail echoed starkly, warm blood painting the memory red.
Jonas stepping forward, sword aloft, defiance radiating from him—then the world having spilled into darkness as Ryan gasped in horror, as Jonas fell before him, loss echoing like a drumbeat in the silence.
Ryan pressed his palms to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut, willing the pain and the truth to dissolve. This can't be real, not again. It wasn't supposed to end like this…
"Jonas fought bravely," another villager added gently, their tone thick with shared grief. "But in the chaos, even as Ryan struggled to process the news of Jonas' death, a villager stepped forward, concern etched intricately across their face. "Ryan," they said gently, "you should see Lord Draemyr. He's been waiting to speak with you. It might help—"
Ryan nodded, his mind still reeling from the weight of tragedy. "Yes, I'll go," he murmured, swallowing the lump in his throat.
But before he could make his way to the lord, a grim responsibility pulled him aside. He remembered the sacrifices made for the village. Gathering his resolve, he stepped out into the open air. The morning breeze felt heavy against his skin, carrying with it the bittersweet scent of earth and ash.
What he saw chilled him to his bones. The remnants of last night's battle sprawled across the village—a stark reminder of their losses. About thirty villagers had perished, their lives snuffed out by the chaos, while over eighty sustained injuries. Each lost life echoed loudly in the silence that enveloped the town, a tangible grief that hung in the air like a storm cloud.
Despite their suffering, Ryan's heart constricted at the greater casualty count suffered by the Drakensvale army. Thousands had been lost, but that provided little comfort; it felt cruel to weigh lives against lives when grief blossomed on all sides.
As he continued, the scene shifted abruptly before his eyes. He froze. Standing under the sprawling branches of an old oak tree were Aelric and Selene, locked in an embrace around a still form lying on the ground. The sight struck Ryan like a lightning bolt.
He stepped closer, breath caught in his throat. The wrappings of a tattered tunic clung to the lifeless figure—a face Ryan recognized all too well. Jonas' spirit had been a beacon of safety in the swirling darkness, and now it lay cold before him.
"Aelric," Ryan whispered, instinctively reaching out as if to comfort the boy. But as he moved, a deeper understanding held him back. It was possible that his own actions—the threads of fate he had woven with his newfound power—had led to this very moment: the loss of not just a father, but of a family filled with hope.
The thought paralyzed him. How could he offer solace when he might have sown this sorrow with his own hands? Instead, he stood silently as Aelric clutched his father's lifeless form tighter, the boy's sobs piercing through the air like arrows of anguish.
Selene, too, seemed trapped in an ocean of despair. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she held Aelric strong in her arms, whispering words of comfort, of which Ryan could only catch fleeting glimpses—everything will be alright, we will stay strong… The promise felt hollow like ashes in a fire, empty in the face of loss that had fallen upon them like a shroud.
Ryan's heart ached, a drumbeat syncing with the cries emanating from the grieving pair. But he could offer no solace that wouldn't come at the cost of more pain.
Turning his head away, he inhaled sharply, needing to escape the agonizing scene. The memories of last night felt alive with him, coiling in his chest, and just like that, the boy and the woman he'd seen as symbols of hope now haunted him with what his choices had extracted.
He walked away, each step heavier than the last, drenched in guilt as his presence faded from their lives. As he made his way toward Lord Draemyr, Ryan could feel the space between them widening, the loneliness of his journey stretching into the distance. In that void swirled the question: had he really saved anyone at all? Or had he only manipulated fate, letting percentage odds dictate who lived and who perished? The echoes of Aelric's sobs would linger in his mind, a reminder of the fragility of choices, the unintended consequences clawing at the heart of every action.