Dawn broke with the scent of smoke and steel.
By the time the sun crested over the eastern ridge, the scouts had already returned with blood on their cloaks and news in their eyes. Two enemy supply routes lay in ruins—one near the river, the other behind a narrow pass choked with ashes and burned wagons.
Aldric stood in the courtyard, watching the smoke rise in the distance. Around him, soldiers moved with purpose. Silent. Efficient. Something had shifted.
They had struck first.
But it was not a victory.
It was an invitation.
Pierre jogged toward him, holding a rolled parchment, sealed with black wax.
"They found this near the second camp," he said, handing it over.
Aldric broke the seal. The parchment was rough, the ink hurried and smeared—but the message was clear.
"I see your fire. I raise you a storm. —B"
He crushed the parchment in his fist.
Charles approached from the other side of the yard, helmet under his arm.
"Brannoc's moving. Fast. He's abandoned two of his outer camps. His men are converging to the south."
"Pulling back?" Pierre asked.
Aldric shook his head. "No. He's concentrating. Preparing something bigger."
A murmur of concern swept through the courtyard as a horn sounded from the watchtower.
A rider approached from the northern forest, slumped over his horse, barely conscious. Blood ran down his side. One of the younger knights caught him before he fell.
"It's Theo," someone whispered. "He was on the eastern watch."
Aldric rushed over, kneeling beside the wounded scout.
"Speak," he commanded.
Theo coughed blood, gripping Aldric's arm. His voice was hoarse.
"They're... they're already here. South of the creek. Hundreds. No banners… just silence."
He convulsed once, then went limp.
Dead.
Aldric stood slowly. His gaze swept across the courtyard. He didn't need to speak—his silence was a thunderclap. Orders began to fly instantly.
"Raise the outer alarms!"
"Move the reserves to the southern walls!"
"Bring water to the archers—now!"
Pierre fell in beside him, panting. "He's trying to force our hand. Make us panic."
"He's testing us," Aldric muttered. "Looking for a weakness."
"What do we do?"
Aldric turned toward the central tower.
"We hold. And we make him bleed for every inch."
That night, the fortress prepared for war.
Archers lined the walls. Fire pits were dug. Oil barrels rolled into place. Every man sharpened his blade with a quiet urgency, knowing that what approached wasn't just another raid—it was the opening move of something far darker.
A storm.
From the battlements, Aldric stared into the treeline. The forest whispered like a living thing. But he knew better.
The silence wasn't peace.
It was patience.
Then came the howl.
One, then three, then dozens. Inhuman, stretched by distance, echoing from the woods like wolves hunting in packs. It was followed by a low, rhythmic drumming—too slow to be marching feet.
Charles appeared beside him, face pale.
"That's not for marching. That's for fear."
Aldric said nothing.
He watched as torches flared to life in the distance. Not hundreds—thousands. Forming a slow arc around the southern edge of the forest.
They were being surrounded.
At the center of the formation, on a small hill, a figure stood tall. Cloaked in black. Helmet reflecting the firelight. And in his hand—a silver raven standard, raised high into the night.
Brannoc.
The men around Aldric tensed. Some whispered prayers. Others cursed under their breath.
Pierre looked to Aldric. "If we ride now, we might break through their flank—"
"No," Aldric said firmly. "We don't run."
He turned to the captains gathered behind him.
"We make this fortress a graveyard."
Hours passed. The enemy made no move. Just drumming. Torches. Shadows.
And then… it stopped.
Silence.
Every man on the wall held his breath.
A single arrow flew from the woods and struck the wooden gate with a heavy thunk.
Attached to it was a strip of skin.
Branded with a mark.
A raven.
Pierre recoiled. Charles stared at it with pure hate.
"He wants us to open the gates," Pierre whispered.
Aldric looked at the mark. Then at the army. Then back at his men.
"We don't open gates for monsters."
He turned and marched down the steps.
"We burn them alive."
The war had begun.
And Aldric, the once-professor turned noble son, now faced the monster that haunted noble halls and campfires alike.
General Brannoc had come for blood.
But Aldric… had come for vengeance.
And he was no longer afraid of the dark.