Somewhere in the north-eastern part of Rothrosia lay a small farmer's village, nestled among rolling hills and fields that were once lush and green. Now, however, a scene of devastation spread across the land. Vegetable patches lay barren, their crops withered and dead, the lifeless plants drooping pathetically in the sun.

Sylvia, the young mage, knelt among the ruined vegetation, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her delicate fingers traced the dry, brittle stems, her eyes narrowing as she tried to sense the source of the blight. The once fertile soil crumbled in her hands like dust, bereft of the vitality it once held.

In the distance, Sir Francis spoke with an elderly farmer, the man's face lined with worry and grief. "How long has this been happening?" Sir Francis asked, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

The old farmer shook his head, his eyes filled with despair. "It started about a week ago," he said, his voice cracking. "At first, it was just a few plants, but then, all of a sudden, everything died. I've never seen anything like it in all my years."

Sylvia picked up a dry, stiff leaf, crumbling it between her fingers. The plant felt fragile, almost like it had been drained of all its life force. Frowning, she dug a little deeper into the soil beneath the plant, her fingers deftly moving through the dirt.

As she sifted through the earth, she felt it—a faint but unmistakable sense of malice, like a lingering shadow in the ground itself. Her heart quickened as she focused on the sensation, her magic probing the soil for answers. There was something dark here, something that did not belong. It was more than just a natural blight; this was the work of some foul force, tainting the land.

She stood, brushing the dirt from her hands as she approached Sir Francis and the farmer. "There's something unnatural at work here," she mumbled, her voice firm.

"It's like a plague," Sylvia murmured, her gaze sweeping over the devastated fields.

"Plague?" Sir Francis echoed, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yes," Sylvia continued, her voice tinged with concern. "Something has disturbed the balance of nature in this region. This kind of widespread decay doesn't happen on its own."

Sir Francis glanced at the withered crops and the lifeless soil, the implications of her words weighing heavily on his mind. "You think it has something to do with the summoning magic circle we found earlier?" he asked, his tone uncertain.

"Perhaps," Sylvia replied thoughtfully, her brow knitted in concentration as she rested one hand on her chin, the other tucked under her arm. "It's possible that whatever was summoned has tainted the land". She let the sentence hang, the unspoken possibilities lingering in the air. The house where they'd found the summoning circle wasn't far from the village. The proximity couldn't be a coincidence.

"Sir Francis," Sylvia said suddenly, looking up at him with resolve. "I'd like to stay here for a while to examine the crops more thoroughly. There might be a way to reverse this, but I need more time to study what's happening."

Sir Francis regarded her for a moment, then nodded. "Very well," he said. "I'll leave you to it." He gestured to the soldiers behind him. "I'll station a few of my men here to guard you while you work. We can't risk anything happening to you."

Sylvia nodded, a determined look in her eyes. "Thank you, Sir Francis. I'll do my best to find out what's causing this."

Sir Francis mounted his horse, his gaze lingering on the afflicted fields and the villagers who watched him with a mixture of hope and fear. He gave a final nod to Sylvia before turning his horse around. "I'll head back to the defence post," he said to his remaining men. "If anything happens, send word immediately."

With a brief salute, the soldiers accompanying him fell into formation, and they began their ride back to the post. Sylvia watched them go, a sense of responsibility settling over her.

...

Sir Francis rode in silence, the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves and the soft creak of saddles the only sounds breaking the quiet. His soldiers rode behind him, their demeanour calm, but Sir Francis couldn't shake the frustration gnawing at him. He pouted slightly, his lips pursed in a manner unbecoming of a knight.

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His mind swirled with the recent events. The witches' attack on the castle, his failed attempt to defeat the ogre, the appearance of the mysterious boys, and the relentless goblin assaults. And now this—what did Sylvia call it? A "plague"? He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a moment's peace. His expression twisted in irritation as he recalled each setback. "What a mess," he grumbled under his breath.

He glanced up at the sky, which was a serene shade of blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds. The breeze ruffled his hair as it passed, carrying the scent of the forest and the faintest hint of wildflowers.

Sir Francis's thoughts drifted to the castle, to its towering walls and familiar halls. He could almost see Princess Alicia in his mind's eye, her radiant, kind smile and her beautiful reddish-golden hair. He sighed deeply, an exaggerated, almost theatrical sound of longing. "I wonder what Princess Alicia is doing right now," he mused to himself. "I hope she's alright."

His shoulders slumped as his gaze fell to the road ahead, the green landscape stretching out before him, framed by distant mountains. The picturesque scene did little to lift his spirits. He couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness as he thought of the princess, safe and sound back at the castle.

Lost in his own thoughts, Sir Francis barely noticed the road passing beneath his horse's hooves. The soldiers behind him exchanged glances but kept their silence, sensing their commander's troubled mood. The breeze continued to whisper through the trees, rustling the leaves as if trying to offer some small comfort. But for Sir Francis, it was little more than a reminder of how far he was from where he wanted to be.

"Maybe when this is all over," he murmured softly to himself, his voice almost lost in the wind, "I'll finally get a chance to rest." He straightened in the saddle, a renewed determination in his eyes. For now, he would see this through, no matter how annoying or frustrating it got. He had to. For the sake of the kingdom, and perhaps, just a little, for the chance to one day to see Princess Alicia.

...

Deep within Rothrosia castle dungeons. The room was dimly lit, with shadows dancing on the stone walls, the air heavy with the scent of damp and candle wax. In the center, a man sat slouched in a wooden chair, his wrists and ankles bound tightly to its frame. His head hung low, and his eyes, wide and vacant, seemed almost devoid of life. Four tall metal stands encircled him, each holding a flickering candle, casting a weak and eerie light upon his hollow face. He was one of the servants who had been captured, the very one found trapped inside the royal treasury room.

From the shadows, a figure emerged, his steps deliberate and measured. It was Sir Gedeon, known for his prowess not just as a knight but as a skilled investigator. His presence commanded respect and fear in equal measure. He was older than Sir Francis, with a face that bore the marks of countless years of service and the weight of many secrets.

Sir Gedeon's appearance was striking and formidable. His dark hair, streaked with the faintest touch of grey, was neatly combed back, revealing a strong forehead. His eyebrows were thick, arching over piercing green eyes. A prominent nose and a well-groomed beard framed his face. His lips were thin, set in a line that rarely curved into a smile, and his moustache curled slightly at the ends, giving him an air of calculated intensity. His attire was that of a seasoned knight, but with subtle details that suggested his role was more than just one of battle.

Sir Geoffrey's stepped out from the shadows behind him. His sudden entrance broke the tense silence in the dungeon. His brow furrowed and his face set in a grim expression. "He's done for," he stated bluntly, his voice tinged with frustration and resignation. The words echoed through the dimly lit chamber, hanging heavily in the air.

Sir Gedeon nodded slightly, his eyes still fixed on the lifeless gaze of the bound servant. "It seems the magic charm cast over him has taken full control of his mind," he said, his tone calm but laced with a cold certainty. "Someone, or something, doesn't want us to uncover the truth."

The room fell into a deep, unsettling silence. The flickering candles cast wavering shadows on the walls, as if the very light was disturbed by the dark forces at play. Sir Gedeon finally turned away from the captive, his features composed but his eyes reflecting a deeper concern.

"We were fortunate to extract some useful information from him before his mind succumbed to the void," he continued, his voice measured but with an edge of urgency. He looked at Sir Geoffrey, who met his gaze with a questioning look, clearly eager to know more.

Sir Gedeon's expression hardened, his face taking on a more serious tone. "One particular name came up during our interrogation," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if even speaking it aloud could summon something malevolent. "It's been bothering me ever since."

Sir Geoffrey's curiosity peaked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "A name?" he repeated, his voice betraying his intrigue. "Whose name?"

With his face growing more concerned Sir Gedeon said, "A name that shouldn't be spoken of, forgotten at best. It was Alastair."

Sir Geoffrey's reaction was immediate and palpable. He recoiled slightly, his eyes widening in shock. "It can't be… that" but before he could continue, Sir Gedeon cut him off, his tone decisive and firm. He said:

"One of the Demon Lords".

The two knights stood there, the gravity of their predicament settling over them like a shroud. The dungeon seemed colder, the shadows deeper, as if the very presence of the name they had spoken had drawn the darkness closer.