"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat". Winston Churchill
Panting through the cold, snowy winter night, the Ironbourne messenger ran desperately through the town, searching like a madman for the people he had been sent to find. They were described as the only ones capable of defeating the Flameborne army feared across the land not for sheer brutality, but because they were the deadliest team ever forged by the infamous Iron Veil.
In his frantic rush, the messenger slammed into what felt like a wall and tumbled hard onto the frozen ground, striking his head. Dazed, he looked up to see not a wall, but a towering figure. The man's cold blue eyes glared down at him, his long black hair hanging damp as though freshly washed.
"Watch where you're going," the man said icily.
"S–sorry, sir," the messenger stammered as he scrambled to his feet. But then he noticed the emblem on the man's coat — three crossed swords, still stained with blood. Every soldier in the land knew that symbol. It belonged to one group, and one group only: the Black Sash.
Relief washed over him. At last, he had found one of the warriors he sought. But that relief quickly turned to dread as he realized who stood before him. Not just one of the six but their leader. Valeric Ashford. The youngest man ever to command an elite team, named leader at only seventeen. Heir to House Ashford. Descendant of warriors who had fought countless wars against the Flameborne. One of only two men to carry both Ashford and Blackwell blood.
"E–excuse me, sir," the soldier said with a trembling voice, "but… are you Valeric, commander of the Black Sash?"
"Yes, I am," Valeric replied coldly. "What do you want?"
"My commander sent me to find you. Whiskmore is under attack. The Flameborne are burning the town to the ground women and children are dying as we speak. We need your assistance!"
The soldier's voice grew firmer as he spoke, but Valeric's expression twisted with disgust. He had hated the Flameborne all his life. Though part Flameborne by blood, he considered himself only an Ironbourne warrior, like his ancestors before him.
"We—"
"Valeric, what are you doing?" a voice interrupted.
The messenger turned to see a broad-shouldered man approaching. It was Rurik Stormbane, Valeric's vice commander.
"We were supposed to meet at the bar ten minutes ago. Who's this?" Rurik asked, barely glancing at the messenger.
"He's a messenger sent to find us," Valeric answered.
"Why?"
"Whiskmore is being attacked by the Flameborne."
"Where's that?" Rurik asked.
"Remember the town Kaelen wanted to visit? The one known for its beautiful women? That town."
"Oh, that one," Rurik said, his expression darkening. "So these Flameborne… are they the kind that rain fireballs from the sky? That attack women and children? That capture innocents and suffocate them for sport?" His voice dripped with disgust.
The messenger swallowed hard. "H–how did you know?"
"Because we've been hunting them," Rurik said flatly. "They've been leaving massacres across this region."
"That army is led by Lyric," Valeric added, a grin curling across his face. "Rurik, go gather the others. We have some Flameborne to fry."
"Go ahead," Rurik said with a grim smile. "I know you've been waiting to kill that bastard and his army. Kaelen will lead us to the town."
The two commanders parted ways.
On the battlefield, the clash still raged. Two Ironbourne soldiers fought desperately against Lyric of the Flameborne. One was already down, unconscious, while the other staggered on, missing an arm and limping.
"It's a pity," Lyric sneered, circling his wounded foe. "I thought I'd found worthy opponents. You bragged so proudly about how weak Flameborne are. But now? One of you is broken and bleeding, the other lies half-dead in the snow. If I were you, I'd get on my knees and beg for mercy."
"I would rather die than beg you," the soldier spat, forcing himself upright.
"Very well. Have it your way."
The duel raged on. Against all odds, the soldier managed to slice Lyric's cheek.
"Well done," Lyric hissed, licking the blood from his face. "You lost an arm and a leg, and only now have you managed to touch me. My turn again."
The soldier narrowly dodged several attacks before Lyric hurled a fireball straight into his face. The man screamed, blinded by flame, collapsing into the snow.
"It's over for you," Lyric said, conjuring a massive ball of fire in his palm.
But suddenly the fire vanished.
"What?! How is that possible?" Lyric shouted, panic flashing across his features. He tried again, but no flames came.
A voice echoed through the blaze. "You should stop preying on the weak… and face someone above your level."
Valeric Ashford emerged through the flames, his blue eyes glowing with a terrible light.
"W–who are you? What did you do to me?" Lyric stammered, his voice breaking with fear.
"I," Valeric said, his voice low and deadly, "am your worst nightmare."