Merwin Dreynoir

AS MY EYES settled on the distant village, I could barely make out the pale, yellow glow of its lights. The night was inky black, without even a sliver of moonlight. A bad omen, many people believed, and one that perfectly mirrored the current scenario.

On the border between Rhoadnia and Elaecia, the situation was dire. The two countries were poised on the brink of war. The northern duchy would be the first to fall. The market was in turmoil, with prices skyrocketing. Rumors of marching soldiers filtered through the taverns and markets, and villages along the frontier were being deserted as residents sought refuge in the interior.

For years, the extremist groups had targeted the sacred temple of the Sunset Goddess. Their recent activities indicated a growing desire to desecrate this holy site. Now, they had arrived at my doorstep, believing they could instigate war and emerge victorious.

Pasha was anything but naive; he must have a meticulously crafted plan if he aimed to conquer the north. Perhaps we had been too lenient with these radical rats. The Duke should have taken a firmer stance.

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I couldn't help but groan. There was no way my situation could possibly have worsened.

Nonetheless, as if lady luck were having fun meddling in my dreams, I received some negative news. On the previous day, the Duke's mistress had given birth to a baby boy.

“Why do you torture me god! What crime have I committed?” was my unheard reproach. An illegitimate firstborn son was a sign of catastrophe. The future was uncertain. Gytha, the duke's legitimate wife, would never accept competition for her children. Malicious as a demon, Gytha would likely initiate her desperate plans. She had already tried to murder Lady Rayeesi, who was like a sister to me.

Rayeesi did not deserve such pain. I had brought her to my county during her pregnancy, so that she could be away from Gytha’s poisonous hand. But now, after the birth of her son, my power to keep her safe was barely intact.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway, snapping me from my grim reverie. Before I could even call out, the heavy oak door rattled with a sudden, sharp rap. My gaze snapped towards the entrance as the door creaked open, revealing a familiar figure. A young man, no older than twenty, stood there, his brown hair tousled and his dark eyes filled with a mix of anticipation and urgency. He was clad in gleaming steel plate armor, its edges trimmed with rich, dark fur. Beneath it, a brown gambeson provided additional warmth, while a thick fur cloak completed the ensemble.

"Your grace, how may I serve you?" he asked, kneeling. His voice was low and resonant, laced with respect.