Annabelle has just advanced to level 2!
The blue message box materialized in the center of Jonn’s vision, its urgent flashing, cutting through the night as he rode back to the village. His expression underwent a rapid transformation—eyes narrowing, facial muscles twitching, before gradually relaxing into a warm, satisfied smile.
I wasn’t expecting that, Jonn mused, pleasantly surprised
He chuckled softly to himself, savoring this welcome news on the heels of his hasty retreat from Yeoman Ferry’s estate. Annabelle’s advancement had come earlier than he assumed.
That chicken is truly gifted, he thought. I’ll need to examine her closely when I return to the village.
Despite his elation, Jonn was aware of the considerable distance still separating him from home. And while curiosity about Annabelle’s progress gnawed at him, a multitude of tasks demanded his attention in the coming days.
Clutching several tomes of {Spells}, Jonn had no intention of returning to the Eternal Village before mastering and testing each one!
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Meanwhile, on the blood-soaked battlefield where Roulf and Annabelle had made their stand, the remnants of their enemies lay strewn across what had, mere moments ago, been a temporary encampment.
Annabelle, the yellow, and white hen, stood amidst the carnage, her feathers stained crimson, her claws coated in a deep, opaque red. She held her head high, eyes gleaming with pride and newfound energy.
Roulf, by contrast, seemed less cognizant of the momentous occasion. While satisfied with their victory over the interlopers, he lacked his senior sister’s contemplative air.
He let out a resounding bellow, as if to remind Annabelle of his presence. His paws were caked with mud and gore, his fur matted with blood, and his body bore the marks of minor wounds sustained in battle.
The vanquished foes had not fallen without a fight. Despite their ultimate failure, the interlopers had landed two significant blows on Roulf, leaving prominent marks on his broad frame—battle scars that would serve as lasting reminders of this day’s conflict.
With graceful, deliberate steps, Annabelle approached the imposing bull. Her penetrating gaze conveyed unspoken instructions. With a swift flap of her wings, she propelled herself onto Roulf’s head, paying no heed to the blood still dripping from his formidable horns.
It was time to return to the village.
Roulf set off at a steady trot, his gait heavy but lacking the earlier ferocity. They left behind the scattered bodies and belongings of their fallen adversaries, but the enemy horses, now masterless, fell into step behind them. These equine survivors, sensing Annabelle’s status as the first beast of the village, followed her unspoken invitation to join their ranks.
As they approached the Eternal Village, the new horses trailed behind with visible trepidation. Their eyes widened at the sight of the imposing wall and the divine greenhouse—the source of the fabled immortal food cultivated in this mystical beast's domain.
While most of the village’s animal inhabitants slumbered, a select few were awake to welcome the newcomers. These greeters, despite their limited intellect, recognized the significance of the moment.
Luna, her massive udders swaying as she ambled towards the water tank, addressed one of the newly arrived horses. ’Serve the master diligently and cause no trouble for the humans, subjects of our glorious master,’ she intoned. ’You’ll find your place here. You’ve left behind your former ignorance and will evolve to become like us.’
The horses nickered softly, their equine features betraying a mix of confusion and compliance as they regarded Luna. Despite their limited comprehension of her words, they instinctively bobbed their large heads, baring their teeth in what seemed to be a gesture of acquiescence.
Luna continued, ‘Good. Tomorrow, you’ll begin your service at our great village. Be prepared to rise early.’
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Dawn broke over the Eternal Village with a gentle, almost reverent quietude.
The day began under a flawless azure sky, the early morning sun gradually warming the chilly dwellings on the outskirts. Its rays crept across the landscape, banishing the night’s lingering chill.
The village’s animal inhabitants stirred with the first light, the roosters performing their time-honored duty of rousing the human populace still nestled beneath their blankets. Their crows pierced the morning air, a clarion call to begin the day’s labors.
Petyr descended from his observation tower after an arduous 12-hour vigil. His face bore the unmistakable signs of fatigue—eyes rimmed with dark circles, mouth opening involuntarily in a series of deep yawns that spoke eloquently of his need for rest.
As he reached the base of the tower, Petyr encountered Wy, his replacement for the coming shift. Despite his exhaustion, the guard leader managed a nod of greeting. “Morning, Wy,” he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse from the night’s silence.
“Morning, boss,” Wy replied, already alert and attired in the distinctive uniform of the village guard. “Any issues to report from the night watch?”
“No, nothing out of the ordinary,” Petyr replied amidst his yawns. “Stick to the routine procedure.” As he turned to leave, he added, “If anything comes up, send someone to my house. Otherwise, I’ll be sleeping until midday.”
“Understood. Rest well, boss,” Wy responded with a nod and a smile, before ascending the ladder to the village’s second observation tower.
Eliot, too, completed his shift change, heading home after ensuring his replacement was settled. As he made his way through the village, he exchanged greetings with villagers emerging from their homes. He spotted Betta, basket, and metal buckets in hand, making her way towards the village exit where guards were just opening the bamboo gates.
Shortly after Betta’s departure for the animal area, Arber fell into step with two village farmers, their destination the big greenhouse. Life within the structure was thriving, and with each passing day, the village inched closer to their expected record harvest.
The farmers’ faces reflected a sense of calm, each aware of their role in building a stronger Eternal Village. This sentiment, however, wasn’t limited to the agricultural sector.
Tim, leaving his elderly wife at home, joined the group of miners. They passed by Arnald’s house, collecting him for their morning excavation. The team made their way to the animal area, pulling a large wagon.
One of the younger miners went to select two horses for the day’s work. Suddenly, the boy’s voice rang out, tinged with surprise and curiosity. “Hey, is it just me, or are those new horses?” He pointed towards animals bearing unfamiliar markings, distinct from their usual steeds.
Tim’s attention was drawn to the miner’s exclamation. His gaze settled on a horse with a distinctive black spot encircling one eye, the rest of its coat a uniform brown.
“Are you certain it’s new?” the old man questioned, his eyes narrowing as he leaned his weathered arms against the fence. “We’ve had quite a few horses arrive recently.”
Betta, returning from her morning chores with a basket brimming with eggs and a large bucket of fresh milk, caught wind of the conversation. “There do seem to be more horses than usual this morning,” she chimed in. “If we include the animals that were supposed to be near East Lake and with Asher’s group, I’d wager we have four new horses here today.”
“What?” Arnald’s surprise was palpable. “Where did these animals come from?”
Tim’s brow furrowed as he cast a suspicious glance towards the sole entrance to the animal area. “How did they get in here? Is there a breach in the fence somewhere?”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Betta shook her head firmly. “That doesn’t appear to be the case…”
A heavy silence descended upon the group as they exchanged perplexed looks, each grappling with the enigma before them.
Their contemplation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of Asher and Sarre, approaching on horseback from the western part of the village. The two riders, armed with spears and mounted on what were arguably the village’s finest steeds, bore expressions of unmistakable gravity.
Tim and Betta’s group turned their attention to the newcomers, immediately noting the serious demeanor etched on their faces.
“Did something happen?” Arnald ventured, his voice tinged with apprehension.
“Dead bodies, overturned carriages, and various belongings scattered around a destroyed camp,” Sarre summarized grimly, recounting the grisly scene discovered during their morning patrol of the Eternal Village’s territory.
Their daily routine involved circumnavigating the village’s old fence, a circular boundary encompassing several kilometers in radius. Today, that routine had been shattered by their macabre discovery.
Asher added, “We need to assemble a team to scrutinize the area. We’ll also need extra hands to collect any resources left behind by the deceased.”
Without further delay, he spurred his horse towards the walled area of the village, Sarre close behind.
As they entered the village, they encountered Elia standing in front of the combined warehouse and Council building. Asher called out, “We’ve got trouble to the west.”
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Meanwhile, deep in the woods near Littlewood, an entirely different scene was unfolding. A group of men, their faces etched with fatigue and tension, stood vigilant around the mouth of a cave. They were armed with spears and shields, their leather armor bearing a uniform insignia that marked them as a cohesive unit.
The forest air was crisp and cold, a stark contrast to the men’s sweat-slicked skin. Their foreheads were smeared with dirt, and many bore blood stains on their clothing—whether their own or others’ was impossible to discern.
Their weapons showed signs of recent use, fresh dents marring the otherwise well-maintained surfaces, yet they remained at the ready.
The leader of the group stood slightly apart from his men, who were positioned in a tight siege around the small cave entrance. He sat astride a horse adorned with armor that matched his own noble combat gear, the ensemble speaking of wealth and status even in its battle-worn state.
This was Count Javis Riverash, his long golden hair cascading to his shoulders, now matted with sweat and grime. His face was a canvas of conflicting emotions—exhaustion etched deep into the lines around his eyes, regret pulling at the corners of his mouth. The night’s events had clearly taken their toll on the nobleman.
It had indeed been a long, grueling night for Javis Riverash and his men.
“Ferry! It’s over! Surrender yourself!” The Count’s voice, hoarse from a night of shouting orders, echoed off the cave walls. His eyes were fixed on the dark maw of the cavern where tracker dogs had led them after the night’s chaotic battle.
The previous evening had been nothing short of pandemonium. Every man present bore the marks of their ordeal—bodies crying out for rest, minds reeling from the sustained stress. Some swayed on their feet, their nausea as much a product of sheer exhaustion as it was from their physical wounds.
The chain of events had been set in motion when Count Javis, upon noticing the fires engulfing Yeoman Ferry’s estate, had launched a massive offensive against his adversary. He had led over 50 men into the forest, including one of his trusted mages, in pursuit of their quarry.
But victory, if it could be called that, had come at a steep price. His most powerful mage had fallen in a fierce magical duel with the enemy spellcaster. Of the 50 men who had entered the forest under his banner, only 15 now remained, clustered around what they believed to be the enemy’s hiding place.
The night’s events had unfolded in a brutal dance of violence and strategy. For nearly two hours, Count Javis, and his men had battled across the property, their fight illuminated by the mysterious flames that had engulfed Ferry’s estate.
As defeat loomed, Ferry had fled, but his resources were limited. Without allies or mounts, the old landowner’s flight was ultimately futile. Now cornered, he faced Javis’s ultimatum.
“Let’s end this, old man!” Javis called out.
The standoff stretched on, tension mounting with each passing minute. Javis’s men inched closer to the cave entrance, weapons at the ready. After what seemed an eternity, Ferry’s weary voice emerged from the shadows between the stones.
“I suppose this is your victory, Javis!” The old man’s words dripped with bitterness. “But it won’t unfold as you expect!”
Suddenly, Ferry burst from the cave’s mouth, a spear clutched in his white-knuckled grip. His eyes blazed with a manic light as he charged blindly at the ring of enemies surrounding him.
The soldier directly in Ferry’s path reacted swiftly, diving to the side. Two others, flanking the old man’s trajectory, moved with precision. One struck with the blunt shaft of his spear, while the other stepped forward, driving the pommel of his sword into the back of Ferry’s skull.
Ferry, more landowner than warrior, crumpled under the dual assault. His spear clattered to the ground as he fell, and in an instant, one of Javis’s men was upon him, pinning his arms.
“Damn you all!” Ferry’s voice rose in a frenzied howl. “I curse you! You’ll pay dearly for this!” Rationality had abandoned him; faced with certain death, he lashed out with unadulterated fury.
Javis dismounted with the assistance of a squire. His attention was drawn to another of his men approaching, bearing a magnificent golden sword. The blade gleamed in the early morning light, its pommel adorned with the unmistakable symbol of House Riverash.
With practiced solemnity, Javis grasped the ancestral weapon. He raised it skyward, the gesture both a salute to tradition and a signal to his men. They responded immediately, manhandling Ferry’s body into position—forced to his knees, head bowed low, ready for the executioner’s stroke.
“Any last words, my lord?” Javis intoned, adhering to his house’s long-standing custom.
Ferry’s eyes bulged, the veins in his neck pulsing visibly as his face flushed a deep crimson. “Fuck off, you bastard…” he began, his voice dripping with venom.
But Javis didn’t wait for the tirade to conclude. With a swift, practiced motion—one he had performed several times before—he brought the sword down.
The whisper of the blade slicing through the air was deafening in the hushed clearing. It was followed by the sickeningly precise sound of steel meeting flesh and bone.
Ferry’s head tumbled to the ground, his face frozen in a rictus of hatred, the curse dying on his lips.
Javis stood motionless, watching as the lifeblood drained from his enemy’s corpse. His men, relieved at the conflict’s resolution, allowed themselves a moment of grim satisfaction.
Yet, even as Ferry’s blood soaked into the forest floor, Javis knew this was far from the end. One battle was won, but the war was far from over.
His musings were interrupted barely five minutes after Ferry’s execution. A guard approached, his face a mix of urgency and trepidation.
“Your Grace,” the man began, bowing slightly, “I have the report on the enemy’s numbers.”
“We have good news and bad news, Your Grace,” the guard reported. “The good news is that no particularly significant warriors from the enemy faction escaped the battle. They all perished. However,” he paused, bracing himself, “we could not locate the bodies of Ferry’s widow and heir. They’ve eluded our search efforts.”
Count Javis’s fists clenched, his gaze fixed on Ferry’s lifeless form, still sprawled where it had fallen moments ago. The survival of a living heir presented a significant complication, even if Ferry wasn’t of noble birth. Eldoria’s laws regarding land succession were unambiguous and inflexible.
As long as a legitimate and recognized heir drew breath, the right to the deceased owner’s lands belonged solely to that heir—no exceptions.
Rising from his seat, Javis strode back to his mount. He issued his orders, “Direct our forces to secure Ferry’s property immediately. We’ll approach Wilmot and Guymar while our men hunt down the fugitives. I’ll oversee young Baynard’s lands in the interim.”
While the legal ownership of Ferry’s estate would remain Baynard’s to claim, nothing could prevent its temporary use by those with the power to seize control. Javis couldn’t openly act or negotiate these lands, but exploiting them would be a simple matter.
As his men scrambled to execute his commands, Javis, accompanied by a contingent of guards, set out for Littlewood. His expression was dark, his gaze distant and foreboding.
‘To the intruder who dared violate my home,’ he thought, his inner voice seething with barely contained rage, ‘brace yourself for the repercussions. You’ve earned yourself yet another enemy, you miserable wretch!’
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To the east of Littlewood, hours distant, a ragtag convoy trudged along an uncertain path. Four weathered carriages creaked under their burdens, six weary horses strained against their harnesses, and a handful of people trudged alongside, their feet heavy with exhaustion and fear.
The group’s appearance was a testament to their recent ordeal. Their clothes, once serviceable, now hung in tatters, as worn and soiled as discarded rags. Most bore the unmistakable marks of their hasty flight—faces and hands smeared with soot, lungs still struggling to clear the acrid smoke that clung to their every breath.
The dawning of a warm, cloudless day did little to dispel the terror etched on many faces. The horrors they had witnessed were beyond anything their simple lives had prepared them for. These were not hardened warriors or seasoned soldiers, but the humble backbone of a great estate—farmers, stablehands, housekeepers, and cooks. They had lived on the periphery of power, hearing whispers of conflict but never expecting to be thrust into its brutal heart.
The savagery of the previous night had shattered their world, leaving them reeling from experiences that would haunt their dreams for years to come.
Yet, in this unforgiving world, there was no luxury of weakness, no time for prolonged grief or regret. Even as the ghastly scenes of the night before replayed in their minds, this band of over two dozen souls pressed onward. Their escape was not just a flight from danger, but a desperate grasp at a new beginning.
Among the bedraggled group, two figures stood out despite their attempts at disguise. Seated at the front of one carriage, their bearing hinted at a life of privilege now brutally curtailed.
Like their companions, they were cloaked in filthy garments, their skin, and hair darkened by the same smoke that had claimed their home.
The woman, her face etched with the lines of middle age, sat rigid in her seat. Her eyes, rimmed with red, were dry. She had exhausted her capacity for weeping, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that seemed to echo the loss of everything she had known.
Beside her, in stark contrast, sat a young man with a spark in his eyes that prevented him from shedding tears and mourning with his mother.
“We’ll turn this around,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, meant only for his mother’s ears. “We’ll find our footing among these servants and forge a fresh path. And mark my words, Mother—sooner or later, we will have our revenge!”