The weather was calm, the sky a serene blue canopy over the bustling streets of Rothrosia. Folk chatted animatedly as they went about their business, children ran around playfully, their laughter ringing through the air. The town was alive with the simple joys of everyday life, a picture of peace and contentment.

And then, without warning, the air shifted.

A sudden, violent gust of wind swept through the streets, tearing through the tranquility like a knife. The coverings of small market stalls were ripped away, sending fruits and vegetables tumbling onto the cobblestones. Merchants shouted in dismay as their goods were scattered, while townsfolk shielded their faces against the onslaught.

Chaos erupted as shop signs were blown to pieces, and stalls exploded, sending all manner of items—fabrics, trinkets, food—whirling through the air. The calm and cheerful atmosphere was replaced with panic and terror as people screamed and scattered, desperate to find shelter. Some ran blindly, pushing and shoving in their desperation, while others stood frozen in shock, not knowing where to turn.

Above, the cause of this sudden mayhem revealed itself. The five witches, the ones who had flown unseen over the kingdom, now hovered menacingly in the sky, their brooms swaying as they cackled with malicious glee. Their wild, unkempt hair whipped around them as they pointed their twisted wands toward the town below.

With maniacal laughter, they unleashed bolts of crackling lightning, each strike sending more debris flying, more people into terrifying flight. They took delight in the chaos they wrought, their shrill voices echoing through the pandemonium as they swooped and circled like vultures over the scene of destruction.

The once-vibrant streets were filled with the cries of its people, the air thick with dust and smoke. And high above, the witches continued their assault, raining down their destructive magic upon the helpless town below.

A lone guardsmen came thundering down the road from the town, his horse galloping at a frantic pace. Panic was etched across his face as he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "Sir Francis! The witches are attacking! The witches—they're here!"

In an instant, Sir Francis snapped to attention, his instincts kicking in. He turned sharply toward the location the guardsman frantically pointed to and saw it, a dark, swirling cloud hanging ominously over the town. Beneath it, he could just make out several shadowy figures darting through the air, their forms barely visible against the roiling storm they had summoned.

"Those damn witches," he muttered, his voice taut with anger. His fists clenched around the hilt of his sword, his jaw tightening as he watched the chaos unfold in the distance. There was no time to waste. Sir Francis bolted toward his steed, the urgency of the moment driving his every step. With a swift, practiced motion, he swung himself into the saddle and shouted to his men, his voice commanding and clear.

"Hold the gate! Ensure order! No one leaves until the town is secure!"

His subordinates scrambled to follow his orders, their faces pale but resolute. Sir Francis knew he could trust them to maintain control, even in the face of this unexpected assault.

Turning back to the trembling guardsman who had brought the news, Sir Francis gestured sharply. "You, with me!" he commanded. The young man nodded, his face a mask of determination as he spurred his horse forward.

With a fierce kick to his steed's sides, Sir Francis took off, galloping down the path toward the town, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes were locked on the dark cloud ahead, where flashes of lightning and bursts of magic illuminated the chaos below.

His expression was grim, his mind racing with the possibilities of what he might find when he arrived. He could only hope he wasn't too late.

"Are there any other guardsmen tending to the attack?" Sir Francis shouted over the pounding of hooves and the roaring wind, his voice strained but steady.

The guard riding beside him glanced over, his face still marked with fear, but his posture determined.

"Yes, sir, but they're all occupied with saving the local residents, trying to get them to safety. Only a few remain, mostly archers, defending where they can," he replied, his voice tinged with worry as they neared the edge of the town, where the witches' chaos was most visible.

Sir Francis clenched his jaw, his mind racing. He knew that the safety of the townspeople came first, but if these witches weren't stopped, there wouldn't be a town left to save.

"Right then, focus on helping the citizens! Get as many to safety as you can!" he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Leave these wretched witches to me."

The guard hesitated, looking at Sir Francis with a mix of concern and admiration. "But, sir, they're powerful—"

"I'll handle them," Sir Francis interrupted, his voice sounding like steel. His eyes blazed with a fierce resolve that left the guard no choice but to nod in compliance.

With a quick salute, the guard turned his horse, veering off toward the crowded streets, where people were still fleeing in all directions, screaming and stumbling in their panic. Sir Francis watched him go for a moment, then gripped the reins tightly and dug his heels into his horse's sides. He galloped onward, alone now, directly toward the heart of the chaos. The witches' laughter echoed eerily above him, mingling with the crash of lightning and the shouts of terrified townsfolk.

High above, the witches swirled and cackled, their wands casting down bolts of destructive magic that shattered rooftops and sent splinters flying. They moved with a terrible grace, their laughter cutting through the air like a mocking song of victory.

But Sir Francis did not waver. He knew the danger, knew he was outnumbered, but he also knew his duty. His heart beat a steady rhythm in his chest, fueled by the desire to protect his people and his kingdom. He drew his sword, the blade gleaming even in the dim, storm-darkened light. He knew he would need to draw their attention away from the people, to make himself the target.

As if in response, one of the witches turned her head, her eyes narrowing as she spotted him below. Her twisted mouth curved into a cruel smile, and she pointed her wand directly at him.

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A surge of energy, crackling and hissing like lightning, shot from the witch's wand, hurtling through the air toward Sir Francis. It blazed a bright, searing path, growing closer and closer until its glow was nearly blinding. At the last possible moment, with a sharp twist of his body, Sir Francis rolled to the side. The ground exploded where he had stood a heartbeat earlier, sending up a cloud of dust and debris.

He tumbled, but with a deft movement, managed to regain his balance, landing in a crouch, sword still in hand. He shook his head, clearing the dust from his eyes, and looked up. The witch, hovering above him, her hair a wild, frizzy mess, pointed her wand down at him, her face twisted with rage.

"Rats!" she screeched, her voice grating like nails on a chalkboard. "You slippery, good-for-nothing—"

But before she could finish, Sir Francis burst into laughter, standing up and brushing himself off. "Haha! Tis but a scratch!" he mocked, raising his sword in a mock salute. "You'll have to do better than that if you wish to best me!"

The witch's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her wand as her nostrils flared. "I'll get you next time, you insufferable fool!" she spat, her voice trembling with anger.

With a grin, Sir Francis opened his mouth to offer another witty retort, but his eyes suddenly widened as something dawned on him. He glanced around, his expression turning from smug to confused in a matter of seconds.

"Eh? Where's my horse?" he said, looking around as if his steed might have simply wandered off for a leisurely stroll amidst the chaos. He turned in circles, searching frantically, his earlier bravado evaporating. "He was right here just a moment ago…"

Then his gaze fell to the ground a few feet away, and his face froze. There, sitting where his noble steed had been moments before, was an enormous, steaming pile of—well, a giant turd.

"A giant turd!" Sir Francis blinked, his mind struggling to process the absurdity before him. "Is this…?"

The witch, hovering above, threw her head back and cackled with unrestrained glee, her laughter echoing through the air like a chorus of unhinged hyenas. "Hehehehe! Your horse is no longer horsing!" she shrieked, clutching her sides as she struggled to catch her breath between fits of laughter. "I've turned it into a giant turd! Hahahaha!"

Sir Francis stared at the mound of ex-horse before him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "You… You turned my horse into a—?" He trailed off, his face a perfect portrait of disbelief.

"Yes, a turd!" the witch crowed triumphantly, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "A fitting end for such a noble steed, don't you think?" She waved her wand again, and for a brief, horrifying moment, the turd seemed to wiggle.

Sir Francis hunched slightly, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists around the hilt of his sword. His face flushed red with fury, and with the intensity of a volcano on the brink of eruption, he raised his sword high, pointing it directly at the witch.

"You spineless wench!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating across the battlefield. "How dare you turn my beloved horse into this… this—!"

"A giant steaming pile of turd! Hahahaha!" the witch cackled, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her mocking laughter filled the air, and she leaned forward on her broomstick, waving her wand at the offending pile below. "Oh, do calm down, Sir Francis! You'll burst a blood vessel!"

Sir Francis's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. "Come down here, you piece of—"

BOOM!

A thunderous explosion cut him off as another bolt of crackling energy shot from the witch's wand. Sir Francis dove to the side, narrowly evading the blast that scorched the ground where he had been standing moments before. He landed in a roll, springing back to his feet, his sword raised defensively.

The witch threw her head back and let out a peal of maniacal laughter, the sound echoing through the surrounding chaos. "You'll have to be quicker than that, you little rodent!" she sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. She pointed her wand again, and another surge of energy erupted from its tip, shooting toward Sir Francis with alarming speed.

He jumped to the left, the blast grazing past him so closely that he felt the heat singe his hair. He ducked, then sidestepped, each move just narrowly avoiding the bolts of energy that exploded around him, scorching the ground and sending up clouds of dust and debris.

"You persistent pest!" the witch shrieked, her frustration evident in her voice as she hurled blast after blast at him. "Why won't you just hold still?!"

But Sir Francis, despite his rage, managed to keep his focus. He danced around the attacks with a surprising agility, his movements almost graceful as he dodged and weaved through the onslaught. His expression, however, was anything but serene. His eyes blazed with determination, and he grit his teeth as he glared up at the witch.

"Is that the best you've got?!" he taunted, his voice a fierce challenge, even as he narrowly avoided another blast. "Come down here and face me properly, you cowardly hag!"

The witch snarled, her grip tightening on her wand as she glared down at him, her patience wearing thin. But Sir Francis, despite the absurdity of his predicament, wasn't backing down. The surrounding ground was littered with craters from the witch's attacks, the air thick with dust and the lingering smell of burnt earth. Yet, amidst the chaos, the knight stood defiantly, his sword raised, his eyes locked on his foe.

Another witch, draped in dark robes with a malevolent gleam in her eyes, swooped down beside the first. "Sister, enough with this pest," she hissed, casting an impatient glance at Sir Francis. "We have more important matters to attend to. The magical seal surrounding the castle has weakened. We must act now."

The first witch paused, her gaze still fixed on Sir Francis with a sinister smile. "Hehehe," she chuckled, twirling her wand playfully between her fingers. "Consider yourself lucky, Sir Knight." With that, she shot him one last mocking look before both witches spun around and sped off toward the castle, their cackles fading into the distance as they disappeared into the dark clouds above.

Sir Francis watched them go, his heart sinking as the realization dawned on him. Not the castle, he thought, a surge of panic welling up inside him. I need to get there, but without my horse…

His eyes darted around frantically, searching for anything, anyone, that could help him. The town was still in disarray, people running and shouting, trying to make sense of the chaos. And then, like a beacon of hope in a sea of despair, he spotted a lone guardsman nearby, assisting a group of townsfolk. The man's horse was tethered just a few feet away, snorting nervously and stamping its hooves.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sir Francis sprinted toward the guardsman, his eyes locked on the steed. "I need your horse!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the din.

The guardsman barely had time to register what was happening before Sir Francis leaped onto the horse's back in one fluid motion. "But, sir—!" the guardsman started, his eyes wide with confusion and alarm.

"I'll bring it back!" Sir Francis called over his shoulder, gripping the reins tightly and digging his heels into the horse's sides. The animal reared slightly, then surged forward, galloping through the chaotic streets as Sir Francis urged it onward.

He sped through the town, weaving between the scattered debris and panicked townspeople, his eyes set on the distant castle. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing his urgency. He could still see the witches, their dark forms darting through the sky like malevolent shadows, making their way toward the castle with alarming speed.

I have to stop them, he thought, gritting his teeth. I can't let them reach the castle.

The horse's hooves pounded against the cobblestones, the wind whipping through Sir Francis's hair as he pushed the steed to its limits. The castle loomed closer with each passing second, its grand silhouette standing tall against the stormy sky.

He knew he was at a disadvantage. The witches were fast, their magic powerful and unpredictable. But he had to try. For the kingdom, for the people of Rothrosia—and for his pride, now that his poor horse had been reduced to a ridiculous heap of manure.

"Hold on, everyone," he muttered under his breath, leaning low over the horse's neck as they raced toward the castle gates.

"I'm coming."