"CHARGE!" Captain Radak's command thundered across the field.

Our steeds, sensing the urgency, trembled momentarily before bolting through the gate all as one. Into the open hill of Sharode. Their coats were a uniform brown, eyes and manes a stark black.

Captain Radak, our esteemed leader and my confidant, harbors aspirations for me to ascend to captaincy. Yet, I remain convinced that I am too ordinary for such a role. His hair, long and black, is a stark contrast to his dual-natured brown eyes—both tender and fierce. At one hundred and twenty-seven years old, he is a figure of both wisdom and strength.

As we galloped across the verdant fields, I pondered our existence. The warriors of Colart, known to many as assassins, are armed with bows, knives, and swords. Our flag, three light blue tentacles on a purple field, symbolizes freedom, bravery, and power—the tentacles of Carat.

"Radak, what makes me different from the others?" I inquired, craning my neck to see him at the center of the front row.

"It's your decision, Herald. They're always made for the good of all, while other captains serve only themselves," he replied, his voice a calm contrast to the chaos around us.

"But I am merely a warrior," I protested, my voice rising above the din.

"That is your belief, not the reality," he countered.

"How can you be so sure?"

Ahead, the grass lay flattened—a sign that others had preceded us.

"I was once like you, Herald," Radak said, his voice deep with reminiscence.

"Ready in two minutes!" he called out, snapping me back to the present.

In unison, every warrior drew an arrow to their bow.

Our mission was clear: to dismantle the human encampment, capturing or slaying as necessary. Among us was a rookie, Vladomir, with his short black hair and perpetually worried expression. His gray eyes flickered with fear, despite his forty-five years.

My friend Arthur, with his short black hair and piercing green eyes, would have been at my side, but an injury had sidelined him.

"Ready in one minute!" 

Bows raised, we prepared for the assault.

"Thirty seconds!"

The bowstrings tensed, ready to unleash death.

"Hey!" Radak's voice cut through the tension.

Without a word, the enemy hurled their weapons at us.

With a chuckle, Radak gave the order: "Fire!"

Twenty-four arrows soared, finding their marks with lethal precision. Of the fifteen in the camp, only eight remained standing—the rest fell, arrows embedded in flesh and bone.

Aner and I, torches lit, approached the jail wagon.

"Hey, catch!" I called, tossing the flint to the passenger within.

"Thanks!" came the grateful reply.

"First row, attack!" Radak commanded.

The front line surged forward. Behind them, Vladomir, Aner, Nater, and I held the second row.

"Second row, attack!"

We charged, save for the wagon. Aner and I hurled our torches toward the camp, igniting an unforeseen explosion. Amidst the flames, we realized the cause—a powder warehouse had been at the epicenter of Aner's throw. The camp erupted, fire consuming all in its path.

“Third Row Advance!”

As the third row prepared to advance, the battlefield had transformed into a maelstrom of fire and chaos. We dismounted, scouring the inferno for survivors.

Two swordsmen emerged at the camp's edge, one lunging towards me. I evaded and, with a swift motion, my knife found its home between his ribs. The other dropped his weapon, pleading for mercy.

"Tawak," I scoffed, the Colartian term for 'weak' fitting for his surrender. Binding him with rope, I hauled him to the jail wagon, where Radak secured him inside.

"That's eight," Radak announced. "Prepare to return to Sharode!"

He then murmured to me, "Herald, there's an empty bed in my quarters. Care to see it upon our return?"

"It's about the quarters, not the title, right?" I jested.

"Move out to Sharode!" Radak commanded.

Our horses galloped homeward, the journey shortened by song—a rare indulgence in Colart, though Radak sang with fervor.

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"If we're to be remembered,

We must fight until it's over—"

Our anthem was cut short by urgent cries.

"Blood orcs to the left!"

"They're targeting Sharode!"

"We must intercept them!"

"Attack!" Radak's voice boomed. "Release the prisoners; we have a greater threat!"

We sped past the wagon, bows at the ready.

"Attack!"

The first row clashed with the enemy. From behind, we loosed arrows into the fray.

"Second row, engage!"

Swords drawn, we plunged into battle, carving through the orcs' ranks.

"Third row, strike!"

I leapt from my steed, blinding an orc with two precise slashes. Three more fell, arrows from Radak's bow piercing their skulls.

Amidst the carnage, Radak fought valiantly, a paragon of strength—until a poisoned blade struck. He collapsed with a pained groan.

"No... this can't be," I despaired. "Not by an orc..."

But there was no orc; a nakarat from the rival kingdom of Nakar had felled him.

"I will avenge you!" I roared, cleaving through the orcs with renewed fury.

Yet, when I sought the nakarat, only blood orcs remained.

"Herald..." Radak's voice was faint.

As I knelt beside him, Captain Radak entrusted a yellowed scroll into my hands. "Deliver this to the king. It's my final gift," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I hovered over him on all fours, a guardian in his final moments.

"Herald, you must see this mission through," he implored.

"You have my word," I vowed, determination steeling my voice.

"A dead man holds no expectations, Herald. Inform the king of the impending peril," he instructed, his tone resolute.

"I will," I promised, my heart heavy with the weight of his trust.

"Bring my body to the king," he commanded, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Understood," I replied, the gravity of the task settling in.

With those final words, Radak's spirit departed. I rose, my resolve unwavering.

Camat's jest about our battle medicine's ineffectiveness against blood orc poison was cut short by a brutal axe, ending his mockery—and his life.

"I'm well aware," I muttered, standing tall amidst the chaos. "To Sharode we return!"

Mounting our steeds, I secured Radak's body onto his horse, while Tasrad took charge of Camat and his mount. Together, our squadron set off for Sharode.

Axes whistled through the air, one narrowly missing Radak. A scar around his thumb caught my eye—a four-toothed imprint. Recognition dawned on me; he was the rookie warrior I had bitten twenty years ago. How he had changed, and yet, there were memories I couldn't—no, wouldn't—commit to paper just yet.

The internal voice that had long haunted me taunted, "You never truly saw your commander."

"Silence," I retorted, quelling the voice.

It fell quiet, but its presence lingered, deep and wise, like a deity's counsel.

Gavor's cry pierced the air, "I refuse to flee only to die!"

"Aner, take Radak's horse. I'll return," I commanded, springing into action.

"Where are you headed?" Aner called out, confusion lacing his words.

"Just take the horse!" I barked, my focus narrowing.

I released Radak's horse to Aner and wheeled mine around, charging toward the orcs. The distance closed rapidly—five tares, four, three...

An axe hurtled towards Gavor, mere moments from impact. Time seemed to stretch, allowing me to calculate trajectory and force. With a flick of my wrist, my dagger flew, deflecting the axe and sparing Gavor.

"Herald?! What brings you here?!" he exclaimed.

"No time to explain—ride! We must regroup with the others!" I urged.

We galloped towards Sharode, dodging death with each stride.

"There! I see them!" Gavor announced.

"Half a hopple to Sharode!" I echoed.

Aner's voice carried to us, "They've returned!"

Sharode's imposing graystone walls loomed ahead, the gates a formidable blend of wood and iron.

As the guards swung the gates open, we thundered through, and they clanged shut behind us.

"You've returned! What's amiss?" the guard commander inquired.

"Radak has fallen," I declared, presenting Radak's horse, his lifeless form still astride.

Disbelief etched the commander's face, his mouth agape, eyes wide with shock.

"We must eradicate the orcs," I stated, a cold resolve in my voice.

"They're retreating. We risk lives chasing them," the commander protested.

"It's already decided. Open the gates!" I demanded.

"No, you can't—"

"I must," I interrupted, spinning around. "CHARGE!"

With a unified cry, the warriors surged forward, the orcs halting their retreat to hurl axes in defiance. But no one was fleeing now.

"FORWARD!" My command cut through the air, propelling us into the heart of battle.

Closing in at a mere three retars—each a meter in length—I leapt from my steed, my blade singing its deadly arc through an orc. In swift succession, two arrows found their marks, felling a pair of foes. Beside me, Aner's sword danced, severing an orc's head, a breath's width from Racat.

The clash was brutal, yet our unity prevailed. Twenty-seven orcs lay slain by our hands, and as the dust settled, we stood victorious amidst a field now silent but for the whispers of the fallen.

 As the dust of battle settled and the cries of the fallen faded into silence, Aner stood amidst the carnage, his sword dripping with the blood of enemies. The victory was flawless, not a single comrade lost, yet the taste of triumph was bittersweet.

“We stand unscathed,” Aner thought, his gaze sweeping over the field strewn with orc corpses. 

“But at what cost? Each life taken is a story ended, a thread cut from the tapestry of existence.”

He sheathed his sword, the metal singing a mournful note as it slid home.

 “Herald leads us well, and under his command, we fight as one. Yet, I cannot help but wonder, in the quiet moments that follow the storm of steel and blood, if there will ever be an end to this.”

Aner's thoughts drifted to the families of the fallen, to the cycles of vengeance that their deaths might spawn.

 “Today, we are victors, but tomorrow, we may be mourners. Such is the way of war—a path paved with victories and losses, each indistinguishable from the other in the grand scheme of time.”

As he followed Herald back to Sharode, Aner's heart was heavy, not with doubt, but with the solemn understanding that their flawless victory was but a single beat in the heart of a war that knew no end.

"Back to Sharode!" I rallied.

We returned as one, the rhythmic cadence of hooves against the earth a stark contrast to the stillness of our hearts. Within the safety of Sharode's walls, we dismounted, each step towards the barracks heavy with the weight of lives taken. Fallen comrades were adding more weight on our hearts.

Upon arriving at our quarters, I entrusted my horse to the servant who was   waiting and proceeded to the main hall, haunted by the remnants of battle in my thoughts.

“Herald, you dispatched them all, didn’t you?” he inquired.

I offered no reply, simply continuing my stride toward the main hall.

“What troubles you?”

“Everything,” I confessed.

“And your family?”

“They are no more.”

“Whither are you bound?”

“To seek an audience with the king.”

No sooner had I set my course for the main hall than Tefart appeared.

“Greetings, Herald. Has misfortune befallen you once more?”

“What brings you here?”

“I am merely surveying my stronghold.”

Disregard his prattle and move on! urged the inner voice.

I sidestepped the captain with a firm push and made for the main hall.

Better this than heeding the words of a captain who has yet to claim victory in battle, critiquing your combat skills.

“Hey! Respect the rank—I am a captain!”

His words fell on deaf ears; I continued on without so much as a glance.