The morning sun barely crested the city walls when Radyn and the five squads assembled at the edge of Lamarc. The Dragoons were a mix of seasoned warriors and newer recruits, each squad representing a distinct fighting style honed through years of training. The air was crisp with the promise of conflict, and the tension was palpable as they awaited Garth’s final orders.
Garth stood before them, his broad shoulders squared, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his helm. He unfurled the map, laying it across a flat rock for everyone to see. The gathered Dragoons clustered around, Radyn standing near the front, his Glaive resting against his back like a silent sentinel.
“Our mission is simple but dangerous,” Garth began, his voice carrying over the assembled troops. “We’re heading to Blackthorn Ridge, where Lanthir’s forces plan to gather. Our primary goal is to observe—see what this convergence is about and assess the numbers we’re dealing with. If we can, we disrupt their plans without revealing our presence. We need to stay hidden until the time is right.”
Jarek, standing beside Radyn, quirked an eyebrow. “What happens when things inevitably go south?”
Garth’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “Then we hit hard and fast, like we always do. But only if we have no other choice.”
Radyn scanned the faces of the men and women around him—veterans like Talia and Edrik, who had faced down monsters and bandits alike, and younger recruits who bore the nerves of their first major mission. He could see their expressions reflected the same mixture of anticipation and unease. For some, like him, this mission would test their mettle in ways they hadn’t imagined.
“We’ll split into three main groups,” Garth continued, tracing paths on the map with his finger. “My squad and two others will move along the northern ridges, providing a vantage point. Radyn, you’ll lead the remaining two squads along the eastern slope—close enough to cover the main approach but far enough that we’re not seen. The terrain should give you cover. If they start summoning something, we need you to be our eyes and ears.”
Radyn nodded, feeling the weight of the responsibility settle on his shoulders. His aura pulsed lightly in response, the Mantle humming against his back. It was a reminder of the power he wielded—power that could tip the scales if used wisely.
“Remember,” Garth said, looking each of them in the eye, “we don’t act unless we have no choice. Lanthir’s forces outnumber us, and the last thing we need is to alert them before we understand their plan. Move with care, and may your auras guide you.”
With a final nod, Garth rolled up the map, signaling the squads to mount up. The sound of armor shifting and horses snorting filled the air as they prepared to leave. Radyn swung onto Ember, his chestnut mare, and took a deep breath. The road ahead was fraught with danger, but the determination in his comrades’ eyes steeled his resolve.
They rode north, a silent column moving through the forested hills that bordered Lamarc. The dense trees and rocky outcrops provided natural cover, and the group moved like shadows, their pace measured but steady. Radyn kept his eyes on the path ahead, the rhythmic thud of hooves providing a constant backdrop to his thoughts. Jarek and Talia flanked him, their faces set with the focus of seasoned warriors.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, turning the forest to shades of gold and crimson, they reached the base of Blackthorn Ridge. Garth raised a hand, signaling the squads to dismount. The Dragoons moved quietly, securing the horses among the trees before advancing on foot.
Radyn’s two squads split off from the main group, moving eastward along a narrow trail that wound up the ridge. They walked in single file, their footsteps muffled by the thick underbrush. Radyn could feel the anticipation building with each step, his senses on high alert for any sign of movement.
The ridge’s natural cover worked in their favor. They reached a cluster of boulders overlooking a wide clearing below—a perfect vantage point for observing the gathering. Radyn motioned for the squads to take position behind the rocks, and they settled in, weapons at the ready but hidden from view.
Night fell quickly, the sky fading from deep blue to black, stars winking into existence. Below them, the clearing began to come alive with flickering torchlight as figures emerged from the shadows—goblins, orcs, and other twisted shapes that Radyn couldn’t quite identify in the dim light. They moved purposefully, gathering around a central point where a tall, hunched figure directed their movements.
Radyn’s breath caught in his throat. He recognized the figure from the descriptions—Gharok, the orc chieftain. Even at a distance, Gharok radiated power, his hulking frame outlined by the glow of the torches. The orcs and goblins deferred to him, forming a loose circle as he began a low chant, his voice rumbling through the night air like distant thunder.
Beside Radyn, Jarek shifted, adjusting his grip on his crossbow. “This is it,” he whispered, barely audible. “Looks like some kind of ritual. You think they’re really going to try summoning something?”
Radyn’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the scene below. The creatures gathered around Gharok seemed tense and uncertain—mirroring the frustration they’d heard in the woods. Yet they followed his commands without hesitation. “Whatever it is, they believe in it enough to risk gathering this many.”
Garth’s voice crackled through their hidden line of communication, a device Jarek had tinkered with. “Stay low. Watch their numbers. We need to know what Gharok is calling forth.”
Radyn pressed a hand to his ear, acknowledging the order, and scanned the shadows beyond the torchlight. More figures emerged, carrying bundles wrapped in dark cloth. They piled these at Gharok’s feet, and the chieftain’s chanting grew louder, a deep, resonant tone that set Radyn’s teeth on edge.
A cold breeze swept through the ridge, rustling the leaves around them. Radyn’s aura prickled beneath his skin, responding to the growing tension in the air. He gripped the Mantle tighter, ready to summon its full power if things turned dangerous.
The minutes stretched on, each breath drawn in silence as they waited. Below, the chanting reached a fever pitch, the ground vibrating with an unearthly energy that made Radyn’s stomach twist. He glanced at Talia, who crouched nearby, her face set in grim concentration.
Then, the torches around the gathering flared brighter, casting stark shadows that danced across the trees. Radyn’s pulse quickened as he realized they were on the brink of witnessing something monumental that could change the balance of power in Elaria.
Gharok raised his arms, his voice booming through the clearing. The creatures around him knelt, their faces turned skyward, eyes wide with fear and reverence. And then, the air split with a sound like thunder, a rift opening above the clearing, swirling with dark energy.
Radyn’s breath caught. “By the spirits… it’s real.”
Jarek’s expression was grim, his usual bravado replaced with a steely focus. “This is way bigger than we thought, Radyn. If that thing gets through, we’re going to need more than a surprise attack to stop it.”
Radyn nodded, his mind racing. Whatever Gharok was summoning, it had to be stopped—before the power behind that rift fully manifested. He glanced back toward the ridge, where Garth and the other squads waited. The time for decisions was fast approaching, and Radyn could only hope they’d be ready when the moment came to strike.
The air around the clearing rippled with power, thickening with an unnatural energy that made Radyn’s skin crawl. The rift above the gathering pulsed, swirling with dark tendrils of smoke and shadow that twisted like living things. Gharok stood at the center of it all, his voice a booming chant that rose and fell in a language older than Elaria itself. The goblins and orcs knelt before him, their faces painted with awe and terror as they gazed up at the rift, hands clutching crude weapons and talismans.
Radyn crouched lower behind the rocks, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. He tightened his grip on the Mantle, feeling the weapon pulse in response to the chaos below. Whatever Gharok was doing, it wasn’t like any magic Radyn had seen before—this was something deeper that reached back into the myths that old storytellers spoke of with hushed voices.
“What is that?” Talia hissed, her voice barely audible above the wind that whipped through the trees. Her confidence had given way to something close to fear as she stared at the swirling rift.
Radyn’s mouth was dry, his mind racing through the stories he’d heard as a child, tales of creatures that once walked the earth before being banished to realms beyond the reach of mortal men. “A summoning,” he whispered back, his voice barely holding steady. “But not like any I’ve seen. That thing they’re calling… It’s not from this world.”
Jarek, who crouched beside him, swallowed hard. “Whatever it is, we’re in trouble if it gets through.”
The ground beneath them trembled as the rift expanded, a deep, rumbling growl echoing from its depths. A chill swept through the air, carrying with it a voice—low and guttural, like rocks grinding together. It spoke in a language Radyn couldn’t understand, yet the meaning seemed to pierce directly into his mind, filling him with a primal dread. Gharok’s chanting reached a crescendo, his voice breaking with raw fervor as he raised a wickedly curved blade above his head, the metal glinting in the torchlight.
Radyn strained to keep his breathing steady, eyes locked on the rift. He whispered to Jarek, urgency lacing his words. “If this goes wrong, we need to fall back. We can’t—”
But the rest of his words were drowned out as the rift burst open with a sound like tearing flesh. From the darkness emerged a figure—a towering shape of smoke and flame, its form barely contained by the physical world. Its eyes burned like twin embers, and horns curved back from a face twisted into a cruel, mocking smile. Its body seemed to flicker between solidity and shadow, as if it were a creature born from nightmare and myth.
Radyn’s blood ran cold. “Lanthir…” he whispered, the name slipping from his lips without thinking. He felt the weight of the ancient legends pressing down on him, stories of greater daemons that could bend reality itself, beings that had once tried to conquer Elaria before being sealed away by heroes long lost to time.
The daemon’s voice reverberated through the air, shaking the leaves on the trees and sending ripples across the clearing. “Who dares call me forth?” it demanded, its voice layered with malice and contempt, filling the air with a pressure that made it difficult for Radyn to breathe.
Gharok lowered his head, kneeling before the massive figure. “It is I, Gharok of the old blood. I have followed your call, mighty Lanthir. The orcs, goblins, all who despise the humans, we have gathered as you commanded.”
Lanthir’s gaze swept over the gathered creatures, then toward the ridge where Radyn and the Dragoons hid. Radyn’s heart seized as those burning eyes seemed to settle on him, but the daemon’s attention shifted away just as quickly as if dismissing them as insects beneath its notice.
“You have done well, Gharok,” Lanthir intoned, the words dripping with mocking amusement. “But do not think that your service alone will earn you my favor. My power is not given lightly.”
Radyn held his breath, muscles tensing as he prepared to flee or fight—whichever was necessary. But before he could decide, movement caught his eye at the edge of the clearing. Figures emerged from the shadows, cloaked and hooded, their faces hidden but their movements confident. Radyn counted at least a dozen humans by their size and gait.
The cloaked men strode forward, unperturbed by the presence of Lanthir. They stopped a few paces away from Gharok and the daemon, their leader stepping forward. He kept his hood pulled low, shadows concealing his features, but his voice carried clearly as he addressed Lanthir with a tone deferential yet laced with confidence.
“Mighty Lanthir, we have prepared the way, just as you desired,” the hooded man said, slightly bowing. “The city of Lamarc is ready. Our men are in place within the walls, waiting for your command. When the time comes, we will strike from within, and the city will be yours.”
Radyn’s pulse quickened, dread settling deep in his gut. He exchanged a quick, panicked glance with Jarek, who mouthed a silent curse. They had anticipated a threat gathering at Blackthorn Ridge, but not this—a coordinated plan to take Lamarc from within.
Lanthir turned its burning gaze upon the hooded leader, a cruel smile curling its lips. “You speak with ambition, human. But ambition is worthless without results. Prove your loyalty, and you shall be rewarded with a place among the strong when the city falls. Fail, and your soul will burn with the others.”
The hooded man’s face remained hidden, but Radyn imagined a flicker of unease in his posture before he nodded stiffly. “It will be as you command, Lanthir. The Duke of Ramires suspects nothing. Our men will seize the gates and secure the noble quarter when the attack begins. Your forces need only march in and claim what is rightfully yours.”
Radyn’s mind raced, struggling to absorb the implications. A coup from within the city timed with an attack from Gharok’s forces… It was a plan that could cripple Lamarc before the Dragoons even had a chance to respond. He leaned closer to Talia, whispering urgently. “They have infiltrators in Lamarc. The city’s at risk.”
Talia’s face grew grimmer, her jaw clenching as she took in the sight before them. “We can’t engage now, not against that thing. We fall back and warn Aldric. We must get back to the city before it’s too late.”
But before Radyn could respond, Gharok spoke again, his voice thick with reverence as he addressed Lanthir. “What of our pact, mighty one? You promised power beyond any chieftain’s dreams. You promised dominion over the land.”
Lanthir’s laughter rumbled like distant thunder, echoing through the night. “Do not mistake my patience for weakness, Gharok. Prove yourself worthy, and the power you seek will be yours. Fail, and your fate will be as ash beneath my feet. For now, prepare your forces. The city shall fall, and with it, a new age will begin—an age of shadows and flame.”
Radyn swallowed hard, fear curling icy tendrils around his heart. He motioned to the others, signaling a retreat. As much as he longed to strike, to stop whatever dark ritual was unfolding, he knew Talia was right. They couldn’t take on Lanthir here—not without reinforcements, not without a plan.
Silently, Radyn and the squads began to creep back from their vantage point, their movements slow and careful to avoid detection. But every step away felt like leaving the people of Lamarc to their doom. He kept his grip tight on the Mantle, the ethereal glow of the glaive a dim light in the darkness.
Behind him, the rift continued to pulse with dark energy, and Lanthir’s voice echoed through the trees like a dreadful promise. “Prepare yourselves, my servants. Soon, Elaria will kneel before me once more. And those who resist… will burn.”
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Radyn clenched his teeth, forcing himself to move faster as they put distance between themselves and the gathering. Every muscle in his body ached with the tension of holding back, of knowing that the fight had only just begun and that they were not yet ready for the battle to come.
They reached the edge of the ridge, where the other squads had already regrouped under the cover of the dense forest. The tension in the air was palpable as Radyn’s eyes met Talia’s, and the unspoken understanding passed between them: they were racing against time, against an enemy that had already sunk its claws deep into the city's heart.
Talia’s expression was grim as she addressed the gathered Dragoons. “We move quickly and quietly. We return to Lamarc, and we get this information to Aldric. If the city falls, all of Elaria could follow. Let’s go.”
Radyn’s breath came in sharp, cold bursts as they urged their horses through the darkened forest, the glow of the rift and the monstrous silhouette of Lanthir fading into the distance behind them. The night pressed in from all sides, the shadows in the trees feeling thicker and more ominous than ever. Every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves set his nerves on edge, but he forced himself to focus on the path ahead, his mind racing with the weight of what they’d witnessed.
Beside him, Talia’s face was set in grim determination, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Jarek brought up the rear, his usual swagger replaced with tense silence. The other squads followed closely, the sound of their horse’s hooves muffled by the thick undergrowth. They all knew what was at stake—Lamarc, their home, and perhaps all of Elaria hung in the balance.
Radyn glanced back over his shoulder, half expecting to see shadows moving in pursuit. But the forest remained still, the only sign of pursuit being the lingering chill of Lanthir’s presence that clung to his skin. He tightened his grip on the reins and pushed his horse faster, the landscape blurring as they descended from the ridge and made their way toward the city.
After what felt like an eternity, the treeline broke, revealing the rolling fields that led to Lamarc. The first hints of dawn stained the sky, pale and cold, casting a gray light over the city’s distant walls. Lamarc’s towers loomed against the morning sky, but even from this distance, Radyn could sense the unease that had settled over the city like a shroud.
Talia pulled her horse up alongside his, her expression shadowed with worry. “We don’t have much time. If they strike before we can warn Aldric—”
“They won’t,” Radyn cut in, though his voice wavered uncertainly. “We’ll make it. We have to.”
Jarek appeared on Radyn’s other side, his face pale in the dim light. “This is bad, Radyn. Worse than we thought. We need to get inside those gates before they lock down the city.”
Radyn nodded, spurring his horse onward. They galloped down the hill, the city walls growing larger with every heartbeat. As they approached, Radyn’s heart sank at the sight of the city gates, already manned by guards whose tense posture suggested they, too, felt the weight of something looming.
A few guards glanced their way as they approached, their hands resting on sword hilts. One of them, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, raising a hand to halt them. “What business do you have at this hour? The city’s on alert. Orders are to keep movement in and out to a minimum.”
Radyn slid off his horse, stepping forward with urgency burning in his voice. “We’re with the Azure Dragoons. We have urgent news for Captain Aldric—information that could save the city. Let us through.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing across his face. He took in the dirt-streaked clothes, the strain in their expressions, and the urgency that clung to them like a second skin. “The Dragoons, you say? Show me your insignia.”
Talia stepped forward, her gaze hard. “We don’t have time for this. Open the gates. Now.”
Radyn flashed his insignia, a battered metal emblem marked with the Azure Dragoons’ crest. The guard scrutinized it for a heartbeat longer than Radyn liked before finally nodding. “All right. Let them through,” he barked to the other guards. “But if there’s trouble, it’s on your heads.”
With a loud creak, the gates swung open just wide enough for them to slip inside. Radyn mounted his horse again, and they rode through the narrow streets of Lamarc, which were strangely empty for the early hour. A few shadowed figures peered out from behind windows and alleyways, their faces tense with the same unease that clung to the air.
As they rode, Radyn couldn’t help but scan the streets for any signs of the infiltrators. Hooded figures, whispers in dark corners, anything that might hint at the danger they had discovered at the ridge. But the city remained eerily quiet as if it was holding its breath for what was to come.
They reached the barracks, and Radyn all but leaped from his horse, his legs trembling from both exhaustion and urgency. Jarek and Talia were right behind him, their faces pale in the gray dawn light.
Captain Aldric stood waiting in the courtyard, already dressed in his armor, his expression dark with concern. He turned as they approached, his sharp eyes assessing them quickly. “You’re back earlier than expected. What happened?”
Radyn didn’t waste a moment, stepping forward and meeting Aldric’s gaze grimly. “It’s worse than we thought, sir. We found Gharok and his forces, but it’s not just orcs and goblins—they’ve summoned something. A daemon called Lanthir. And there’s more.”
Aldric’s eyes narrowed his expression hardening. “A daemon? Are you sure?”
Talia nodded, her voice low and urgent. “We saw it with our own eyes. It spoke of taking the city—of using Gharok’s forces as the first wave. But that’s not all. There are men inside Lamarc working with Lanthir. Traitors. They plan to strike from within, to open the gates when Gharok’s army arrives.”
For a moment, Aldric was silent, the weight of their words sinking in. Then he turned sharply, issuing orders to the nearby guards with a barked command. “Double the patrols on the walls. No one enters or leaves without my say-so. Get a message to the Duke—he needs to know about this immediately.”
He turned back to Radyn, Jarek, and Talia, his face set in grim determination. “If what you say is true, we need to root out these traitors before they make their move. Radyn, Talia, and Jarek—you’ll be in charge of coordinating with the city watch. Find these infiltrators. I’ll alert the Dragoons and prepare for the attack from outside.”
Radyn swallowed hard, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. He nodded, determination mingling with the fear that still knotted his gut. “We won’t let them take Lamarc.”
Aldric clapped a hand on Radyn’s shoulder, his grip firm. “I know you won’t. Now go. We don’t have time to waste.”
With a final glance at Talia and Jarek, Radyn turned and led them back into the city streets, their mission clear. As they moved deeper into the city, Radyn’s thoughts raced with everything that had happened—Gharok’s summoning, the presence of Lanthir, and the hooded men who planned to betray the city from within. The battle for Lamarc had already begun, and he could only hope they would be fast enough to tip the balance before it was too late.
The morning light spread over the city, washing away the darkness of night, but for Radyn, it felt like the shadows of what they had seen still clung to him, refusing to fade.Captain Aldric, Garth, and Radyn moved swiftly through the keep halls, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The urgency of their mission weighed heavily on them as they approached the Duke’s council chamber. Radyn’s mind raced, replaying the events they had witnessed at Blackthorn Ridge—the summoning of Lanthir, the traitorous plotters within the city, and the looming danger now threatening Lamarc.
Aldric, ever composed, cast a glance toward Radyn, giving him a small nod of reassurance. Garth’s expression remained stern, his focus entirely on the task at hand. They reached the massive double doors, guarded by two soldiers clad in the green and silver of House Ramires. At Aldric’s nod, the guards pushed the doors open, revealing the chamber beyond.
The council chamber was grand, with high vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows that cast a mosaic of colors across the floor. At the far end of the room sat Duke Alistair Ramires, a tall, imposing figure with iron-gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His presence was commanding, a man accustomed to holding power and wielding it decisively. He sat in a high-backed chair, his fingers steepled as he studied the Dragoons.
His son, Joffrey Ramires, sat to the Duke’s right, a young man with sharp features and a thoughtful expression. Joffrey’s gaze swept over the Dragoons, lingering on Radyn with curiosity rather than the disdain Radyn had expected. His fingers rested calmly on the armrest of his chair as if weighing the gravity of the situation.
To the Duke’s left was Lord Cedric Varnell, the Master of Strategy. He was a gaunt man, his sharp, hawk-like gaze taking in every detail of the Dragoons’ entrance. His green cloak, embroidered with the emblem of House Ramires, hung over his shoulders, marking him as a man whose mind was as keen as his reputation suggested. Cedric was known for his cunning in matters of war, and his presence here meant that every decision was carefully considered from a strategic angle.
Beside him sat Lady Elara Morvayne, the Mistress of Coin. A stern woman with a calculating air, she kept a tight grip on the city’s finances. Adorned with gold rings, her hands rested lightly on a stack of ledgers, but her sharp eyes never wavered from those who spoke. She was the voice of caution and practicality in the council, ensuring that every expense was weighed against its benefit to the city.
At the far end of the table stood Sir Garvin Holt, the Commander of the City Guard. He was a veteran of many battles, and his scarred face was a testament to years spent defending Lamarc. Even here, he was clad in partial armor, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. Garvin’s presence exuded the steady confidence of a man who had seen his fair share of conflict and was prepared for more.
Finally, Magister Renwald Farrow, the Chief Advisor on Arcane Matters, leaned on his twisted wooden staff, the tip glowing with a faint, pale blue light. His long white beard flowed over the front of his robes, and his eyes, bright with ancient knowledge, held a mysterious depth. Renwald’s expertise lay in understanding the mystical and the unseen—a perspective the council would need, given the news the Dragoons had brought.
These minds shaped Lamarc’s fate, each bringing their expertise and perspective to the table. As Aldric, Garth, and Radyn took their positions before the Duke, the room fell into a tense silence. Duke Alistair spoke first, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “Captain Aldric, you have requested this audience with urgency. I trust the news is worth interrupting my council’s deliberations?”
Aldric inclined his head. “Your Grace, it is. What we witnessed at Blackthorn Ridge changes everything.” He glanced at Radyn, signaling him to step forward and recount the events.
Radyn took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet the Duke’s gaze as he began. He described the gathering of the orc and goblin forces under Gharok’s command, the summoning of the daemon Lanthir, and the presence of human conspirators who spoke of taking over the city from within. As Radyn spoke, the expressions of the council members shifted from curiosity to shock, then to a grim understanding of the threat they faced.
When he finished, silence gripped the chamber. Duke Alistair leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of contemplation. “A daemon,” he murmured, glancing toward Magister Renwald. “And traitors in our midst. Is this possible, Magister?”
Renwald stroked his beard, his eyes narrowing in thought. “It is possible, Your Grace. Summoning such a being would require considerable power and knowledge. It is not something goblins and orcs could manage on their own. They would need… assistance. As for Lanthir, the name carries echoes of ancient myth—tales of beings that once sought to break the boundaries between realms. If such a creature has been called forth, it poses a threat far beyond mere raiders.”
The Duke’s brow furrowed, and he turned his gaze toward Joffrey. “What say you, my son? Should we marshal our forces now, or do we risk waiting to see if this threat manifests?”
Joffrey leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Father, I believe we must act, but not rashly. If Radyn’s report is true—and I have no reason to doubt it—then we face a threat unlike any we’ve encountered. But a preemptive strike could play into our enemy’s hands if they are prepared for it. We should fortify the city, ensure our defenses are sound, and focus on rooting out the traitors within our ranks before we march on Blackthorn Ridge.”
Radyn blinked in surprise at Joffrey’s measured tone, finding a strange sense of relief in the young noble’s words. He had expected arrogance, perhaps even disdain, but Joffrey spoke with a clarity and caution that seemed wise.
Sir Garvin Holt, however, was less patient. “Fortifying the city might buy us time, but it won’t stop the blade aimed at our throat. We cannot wait for this daemon’s army to reach our walls.”
Aldric nodded, his voice firm. “Sir Holt has a point. The longer we wait, the stronger Lanthir’s forces may become. Every day that we delay is another day for them to gather strength. We need to strike before they are ready.”
Lady Morvayne shifted uncomfortably, her eyes darting to the Duke. “Your Grace, if we commit to an offensive campaign, the costs will be severe. The city’s resources are already strained. A full-scale war would demand much of our coffers.”
Duke Alistair raised a hand, silencing the growing arguments. His expression was stern, and his voice cut through the tension in the room like a blade. “Enough. We have no choice but to act decisively. Radyn, Aldric, and Garth—you have brought us the proof we needed. If we do not move against Lanthir and his allies now, we risk losing the city and the entire region.”
He turned to Joffrey, his expression softening though his resolve did not waver. “You speak wisely, Joffrey, but caution alone will not save us. We cannot allow a creature like Lanthir to rally its forces unchallenged. We will strike first and strike hard.”
Joffrey’s expression tightened with concern. “Father, I understand your decision, but if we leave the city vulnerable while our forces are away—”
The Duke cut him off with a raised hand. “You will remain here to oversee the defenses of Lamarc, Joffrey. I trust you to keep our home secure while I lead the assault. Aldric, you will join me as my right hand. Garth, take a contingent of the Dragoons to scout ahead and ensure our path remains clear.”
Aldric bowed his head, accepting the order. “As you command, Your Grace.”
Garth nodded firmly, his gaze steady. “We’ll make sure the way is clear, and if more traitors are lurking, they won’t escape us.”
The Duke turned his gaze back to the rest of his council. “Lord Varnell, draft our battle strategy. We move within two days. Lady Morvayne, see to it that the war chest is opened. I don’t care how much it costs—this city and its people are worth any price. Sir Holt, double the watch and prepare for any attempts to destabilize the city while our forces are away.”
Each council member nodded, their expressions determined, even if some carried a hint of unease. Joffrey’s eyes lingered on Radyn for a moment as if silently pleading for caution, but he gave a resolute nod as he turned back to his father.
“As you wish, Father,” Joffrey said quietly. “But I urge you—ensure that your forces do not overextend. Lanthir is a cunning foe, and we must not underestimate him.”
Duke Alistair’s expression softened slightly, a father’s pride glimmering in his eyes as he looked at his son. “I know, Joffrey. I trust your judgment, but we must act. Lanthir’s threat will not wait for us to be ready. We will crush it before it has the chance to grow.”
With that, the Duke stood, signaling the end of the council session. The decision was made, and there would be no turning back. As Aldric, Garth, and Radyn left the chamber, the gravity of the Duke’s words hung heavy in the air.
Joffrey's voice called out as the council members began to disperse, stopping Radyn in his tracks. “Radyn, a word, if you please.” His tone was calm but carried an undercurrent of urgency. Radyn exchanged a glance with Aldric, who gave him a subtle nod of permission, and Garth moved on with a final look of encouragement.
Joffrey led Radyn to a quieter corner of the chamber, away from the lingering council members and the Duke’s watchful eyes. The young noble’s expression softened, a trace of weariness breaking through his composed demeanor. For a moment, he seemed less like the heir to the dukedom and more like someone carrying the weight of a growing storm.
“Thank you for staying,” Joffrey began, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone. “I wanted to speak to you directly, without the formality of the council. Your report—what you witnessed—it troubles me deeply.”
Radyn studied Joffrey, surprised by the genuine concern in his voice. “It’s not easy to believe, I know. But I swear on my life everything I told the council is true. Lanthir is real; whatever he’s planning, it’s not just some rumor or myth.”
Joffrey nodded slowly, his gaze distant as he considered Radyn’s words. “I don’t doubt your honesty, Radyn. It’s the implications that worry me. If there are traitors within the city, as you say, we’re fighting a battle on two fronts—one against this daemon and another within our walls. And my father’s decision to march our forces into the wilderness… I fear it may leave us exposed.”
Radyn hesitated, sensing the burden Joffrey carried. He shifted his stance, choosing his next words carefully. “Your father is a strong leader, Joffrey. But I agree, there are risks. If we don’t act quickly, Lanthir’s forces could grow beyond our ability to handle. But if we’re too hasty, we might leave ourselves vulnerable to those plotting from within.”
Joffrey’s expression softened, and for the first time, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one with these concerns. I’ve seen men driven by ambition, Radyn, and I fear some in this city might be swayed by promises of power, even from a creature like Lanthir.”
Radyn felt a pang of empathy for the young noble. Despite their different upbringings, he saw in Joffrey a sense of duty and a desire to protect the people of Lamarc, much like his own. “You’re not alone in this. I know I’m just a Dragoon, but I’ll do whatever I can to help. If there’s any way to uncover the traitors while your father leads the attack, I’ll do it.”
Joffrey’s smile grew, and he clasped Radyn’s shoulder with a firm grip. “Your offer means more than you know, Radyn. There aren’t many I can trust in times like these. Perhaps, in the days to come, we could consider ourselves allies—if not friends.”
Radyn blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in Joffrey’s words. He had never expected to find common ground with the Duke’s son, but he saw a genuine opportunity for alliance at that moment. “I’d be honored, Joffrey. I’ll stand with you, whatever comes.”
Joffrey released his grip, his expression growing serious once more. “Thank you, Radyn. We’ll both have our roles to play in the days ahead. For now, keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything, anything at all, that suggests a plot against my father or this city, come to me directly.”
Radyn nodded, understanding the weight of what Joffrey was asking. “I will. And if you need me, I’ll be ready.”