By the time the first pale stripe of sunlight crept over the tree line, the made up swamp had already begun swallowing men whole. Mud churned beneath boots, the water stank of rot and steel, and the cries of the wounded bled into the morning like distant ghosts.
Prince Erion Aldren Vermillion, younger brother of Granbell, yanked his sword free from a barbarian's shoulder and staggered back, breath frosting in the cold air.
He should've been winning.
He had fifteen thousand men when he arrived.
Now?
He couldn't even see five hundred through the thick mist.
Heavy rain fell just before the dawn of the battle, making the heavy cavalry friendly fields into deadly swamps.
"Push forward—Damn it, HOLD THE LINE!" Aldren shouted, but the words came out thin, swallowed instantly by the swamp.
To his left, shields were already dipping into the water. To his right, a standard-bearer slipped, sinking waist-deep in muck before two soldiers dragged him out.
Every step forward costs a life in the Jouragen fields.
"WE CAN'T SURRENDER, NO SURRENDER! PUSH FORWARD-"
Every barbarian step forward cost none.
The barbarian tribes fought like creatures born of the marsh—bare feet gripping mud, spears thrusting from where the fog hid them. Their drums reverberated across the water, slow and heavy, like a heartbeat counting down to disaster.
Erion's lieutenant, Sir Luthar, slogged up beside him, panting.
"Your Highness—our right flank has collapsed. The heavy cavalry men are gone-"
"Gone?" Erion snapped.
"Gone, deserters or dead. We can't tell." Luthar clenched his jaw. "If we fall back any further, we'll reach the moat…"
Aldren turned around.
Through the mist, the shape of Castle Jouragen loomed behind them—tall, iron-spiked walls rising out of the made up swamp like a dying beast trying to hold its head above water.
The last safe place in the north. The last stronghold, before the north becomes the central region.
And they were being pushed straight into the depths of death.
Another horn blasted—deep, guttural, barbarian.
Aldren froze.
The sound came from the left, from a position the barbarians shouldn't have been able to reach.
"What—? They circled the bog?" he whispered.
As if answering, dozens of silhouettes appeared in the morning haze, advancing slowly. Spears lowered. Shields locked.
Aldren's stomach dropped.
This wasn't a battle anymore.
It was a closing fist.
Luthar grabbed his arm. "Your Highness, we must fall back to the castle. If they take it—"
"They won't take it," Aldren hissed, though the words felt like lies.
He could barely hear his own voice now.
The swamp muffled sound like a grave.
Soldiers slipped. Men drowned.
Barbarians advanced maniacally, screaming of horrors through the mist.
While he and Luther were arguing should they retreat or not-
Another standard fell.
Another shield wall broke.
Aldren's hands trembled on his sword hilt. Not with fear—but with anger.
"Where are the reinforcements!?" he shouted into the fog, voice cracking.
"The north is falling by each moment! What are they doing!?"
No one answered.
Aldren spat swamp water from his lips and raised his sword again.
"MEN OF VERMILLION! BACKWARD MARCH! FORM ON THE CAUSEWAY! NOW!"
Though he commanded bravery and discipline, deep down he prayed that someone would arrive.
He prayed relief would break through the fog.
"SHIELDMEN ONTO THE LEFT, INFANTRY INCOMING!"
Because if not…
Castle Jouragen would become a funeral that Vermillion history would remember for generations to come.
Then, from the edge of the forest, movement caught his ear:
He barked orders for a temporary infantry charge to hold the enemy, even as he braced for the worst.
The forest to the south shook with the thunder of hooves. A large army was moving through the forest, but Erion didn't know who or what it was yet.
"Are they preparing to finish us?" Luthar wondered, while Erion stayed silent as three lines of his men formed in front of him once again.
24 hours earlier - When Granbell awoke in the throne room.
Over the walls of Castle Jouragen, the horizon began to crawl with movement. Thousands of barbarians crept into view like a dark tide, the tiger-claw dark banners of the clans rippled violently in the wind. What were once the soft, semi-green fields of Jouragen were now swallowed by a sea of bodies, spears, and war-painted faces. Mud squelched under boots and hooves alike, leaving dark streaks across the earth. Spears clanged as soldiers adjusted their grips, and the air smelled of smoke, sweat, and iron.
Dum.
Through the war drums of the approaching army what was worse were the screams they produced.
Dum.
At first, the sound seemed like distant thunder — but it grew, steady and rhythmic, as a single rider emerged at the front of the horde. Mounted on a black stallion, the rider wore a wolf-fur coat draped over his shoulders, and a carved wooden mask hid every hint of his face. Even his voice, when it finally rose, echoed through some kind of filter or bone-weave mask.
He lifted his sword high, and the army fell eerily silent. Horses snorted and stamped, hundreds of standard-bearers struggled to hold soaked banners upright as wind and mud tugged it downward.
"PEOPLE OF CASTLE JOURAGEN!"
Governor Elraine stood upon the battlements, her red cloak whipped by the cold wind as the plains darkened with shadows. Soldiers behind her tightened grips on their bows, knuckles whitening. One young archer muttered a prayer under his breath, hoping the gods would have mercy.
"I AM OTTO OF THE ZEKIEL CLAN, CHIEFTAIN OF THE EASTERN CLANS — WAR-CHIEF OF A TWENTY-THOUSAND STRONG HOST!"
The words rolled across the plains like an iron decree.
The governess shook her head gifted with blue eyes and spat. "Take your titles elsewhere, barbarian."
Pointing his sword towards the castle he continued "I both advise and command you: open the proud gates of the southern wall! Do this, and I swear upon my blood, not one innocent shall be harmed!"
Then lowered it and shook his head mockingly "BUT! If you foolishly decide to fight, I swear upon my name the Vermillions will mark castle Jourgan as one of the bloodiest massacres in their recent history!"
The wind carried his final vow, sharp and cold as a blade. One of the younger soldiers flinched involuntarily, watching the masked rider, unable to tell if fear or awe gripped him more tightly.
Then suddenly, an arrow struck just beside Otto landing into a barbarian's head.
"DEATH TO INVADERS!" Someone yelled from the far right castle walls, what followed was the archers chanting death to the barbarians in unison.
The governess, smiled sharp as a lion, raised her arm like a spiteful snake,"SHOWER THESE BARBARIANS WITH STEEL! CASTLE JOURAGEN SHALL NEVER KNEEL TO INVADERS!"
Soldiers swallowed hard, gripping their bows tightly, and for a moment, the army seemed to hold its collective breath. Then, the next second, a tide of arrows fell over the barbarian host, boots and hooves striking the ground in unison, the banners whipping violently, some sagging under the weight of water and mud.
Beneath the castle's high keep, the city's people were already covering in fear. The scent of smoke from early cooking fires mingled with mud and the distant tang of sweat.
Zekiel ordered an all out attack, from every side of the castle barbarians ran to be first to climb. "You'll regret those words, O governess of Jouragen high castle of the north gatekeeper to the south, let God judge your misdeeds."
The Battle of Jouragen Castle which would later be marked as one of the greatest miracles in earlier Vermillion history had officially begun.