The humans were growing restless. Fear had taken root in their kingdom, festering like a disease. The King had spoken of shadows that watched him, of voices whispering in the night. His advisors dismissed it as paranoia, the ramblings of a man haunted by his own deeds. But the nightmares did not stop. Nor did the reports from his soldiers.
Villagers swore they had seen creatures lurking in the forests beyond the borders. Strange, winged beings with glowing eyes that vanished before they could be confronted. Hunters who dared venture too far returned speaking of twisted paths, illusions that left them wandering in circles for hours. Farmers whispered of crops wilting overnight, of strange symbols appearing in the dirt as if some unseen force had marked their land. Livestock grew uneasy, spooked by things unseen, their frightened cries echoing through the night.
The Moors had always been feared, but now, they were something worse—an imminent threat.
Maximilian watched from the shadows, unseen but ever present. He perched atop castle spires, his dark form blending into the night, listening to the frantic whispers of courtiers and knights. He wove through the forests, his wings rustling the leaves above as he watched patrols stumble through the undergrowth, their torches flickering with every gust of wind. They were blind men grasping at phantoms, mistaking their own fear for enemy movements.
They thought themselves prepared. He smirked at their ignorance.
The King would not sit idly by. He ordered his blacksmiths to forge new weapons—iron-tipped spears, arrows coated in oils meant to burn even the toughest hides. He doubled the number of patrols along the borders, soldiers now marching in formation, training tirelessly for a war they believed inevitable.
But Maximilian saw their arrogance for what it was—desperation masked as strength. He saw how their hands trembled when they gripped their swords, how their breaths quickened when they spoke of the Moors. They convinced themselves that iron and fire would protect them, that strategy and numbers would grant them victory. But no matter how many weapons they made, no matter how many men they sent to patrol the forests, they would never be ready for what awaited them beyond their walls.
The King's council chamber was filled with heated voices, advisors and generals arguing over the looming war. The long wooden table shook as one of the nobles slammed his fist upon it.
"This is madness!" cried Lord Harland, his face red with frustration. "The Moors have never marched against us. Why should we provoke a war we may not win?"
"Because we are already at war," countered Lord Berric, one of the King's most trusted military commanders. "They have attacked our lands, haunted our dreams, and burned part of our castle to the ground! Do you expect us to stand idle as those creatures corrupt our kingdom?"
Several nobles muttered their agreements, while others exchanged uneasy glances.
"The Moors did not attack us," another advisor pointed out. "We took from them first. We stole from their kind and expected no consequences."
"Are you suggesting we grovel for peace?" Berric sneered. "That we should let them grow stronger while we cower behind our walls? That is not the way of this kingdom."
The King, seated at the head of the table, remained silent, his fingers tapping against the wood. The weight of the decision pressed upon him, his mind clouded by fear and the restless nights Maximilian had forced upon him. Shadows seemed to linger in the corners of the chamber, whispering doubts into his thoughts.
"They will come for us whether we act or not," he finally said, his voice quiet yet commanding. "And when they do, we will be ready."
A hush fell over the chamber. The King stood, his gaze sweeping across the room, his decision final.
"We march against the Moors."
A slow murmur of approval rippled through the room. Some nodded grimly, others hesitated, but none dared to speak against him now. The fate of the kingdom had been sealed.
Maximilian could have laughed. They were children playing at war, believing that courage could shield them from the unknown.
As the humans trained, he wove through their ranks unseen, whispering into the ears of the most fearful as they slept. He twisted their dreams, showing them visions of their own downfall—knights engulfed in unnatural fire, arrows crumbling to dust before they could find their mark, the land itself turning against them. When they awoke, drenched in sweat, they spoke of ill omens and dark magic, their doubts growing like a cancer within their ranks.
The humans were preparing for war.
And soon, they would learn what it meant to challenge the Moors.
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