Merwin Dreynoir

"My lord," the Tally Man choked out, his voice raw with anguish. His face was a mask of despair. "We've suffered a devastating blow. Two hundred and thirty-eight souls are lost, confirmed. Lord Valiyan's legion has been cut in half. And... and Jashua Glen's elite squad... they're practically wiped out. We lost two mages, sir, and many more are gravely wounded. The archers, thankfully, endured the onslaught better than most, but even they have not emerged unscathed."

Each word felt like a blow, a physical agony that tightened its grip around my chest. Two hundred and thirty-eight. Gone. The words echoed in my mind, each syllable a hammer striking my heart. Our infantry, shattered. Valiyan's cavalry, broken. And Jashua... I couldn't breathe. A sob tore its way out of me, and I turned away, seeking refuge from the Tally Man's compassionate eyes, eyes that mirrored the devastation I felt.

"Leave me," I rasped, the word a jagged shard in my throat. I gestured weakly with my hand, dismissing him.

He lingered, his eyes filled with a helpless sympathy that only intensified my pain. Words of comfort died on his lips, for what solace could be offered in the face of such devastation? he saluted and retreated from the tent, leaving me to the suffocating silence and the crushing weight of our defeat.

The flickering candle flame painted the tent with dancing shadows, each one a grim reminder of the lives lost. Had my life always been destined for this—a constant cycle of death and despair? I had become Count through tragedy, my ascent marked by the loss of my father and siblings. Now, as Commander, I faced another wave of grief, another battlefield strewn with the bodies of those I was charged to protect. My first battle, a brutal lesson in the cost of leadership. And that familiar emptiness, that void in my soul, deepened, echoing the vastness of our defeat.

"Merwin..." a soft voice, laden with concern, broke through the suffocating gloom.

I turned to see Rina standing in the tent opening. Her eyes dimmed with sorrow, yet radiating determination. She was well and alive. A sense of Relief flooded through me.

I rose to meet her, and she collapsed into my arms, her body wracked with sobs. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one a painful echo of my own grief. Tears streamed down her face, tracing paths through the dust and grime that clung to her skin. I held her close, the warmth of her tears a stark contrast to the cold steel of my armor. The faint scent of lavender, her signature fragrance, enveloped me, a fleeting reminder of a simpler time. Jashua, her uncle, had been a father to both of us, his loss leaving an immeasurable void in our lives. We clung to each other, two souls seeking solace in the midst of overwhelming sorrow.

"He... he was like a father to me," she whispered, her voice broken and raw.

I looked down at Rina, her face streaked with tears, her eyes filled with a pain that mirrored my own. Her short, black hair, usually vibrant and full of life, was now disheveled, framing a face that was both delicate and strong. Her high cheekbones and elegant nose gave her an air of nobility, while her full, red lips hinted at a passionate nature. But it was her eyes, those deep, expressive eyes, that always captivated me. They held a wildness, a spark of something untamed, that I found both alluring and irresistible.

I gently lifted her face, my thumb tracing the path of a fallen tear. When our eyes met, a silent understanding passed between us. I lowered my head and kissed her, not with the fiery passion of our past, but with a tenderness born of shared sorrow. Our lips brushed softly, a fragile connection in the midst of overwhelming grief. For a stolen moment, the kiss offered sanctuary, a quiet haven from the storm raging around us.

When we finally broke apart, the silence in the tent felt charged with unspoken emotions. Rina's eyes, though still brimming with sadness, held a newfound warmth, and a delicate blush colored her cheeks.

"I... I should see to the others," she murmured, her voice husky with emotion. "Two of my mages... they didn't..." Her words faltered, the pain of their loss evident. She touched my arm gently, a feather-light gesture of connection. "Kael and Talia. They were so young."

I reached out and cupped her cheek, my thumb tracing the curve of her jawline. "Go," I said softly, my voice filled with understanding. "We'll talk later."

She leaned into my touch for a moment, then turned and left the tent. I watched her go, her silhouette receding against the flickering firelight that spilled through the tent flap. Even in this moment of grief, her grace and strength shone through. She was everything my wife was not: passionate, courageous, and undeniably alive. And despite the knowledge that our relationship was forbidden, that it had no future, I couldn't deny the feelings that stirred within me. She completed me in a way that I had never thought possible.

With Rina gone, the silence in the tent became a deafening roar, amplifying the disastrous truth of our situation. The Rhoadnians hadn't simply won a battle; they had dealt us a crippling blow, leaving us shattered and demoralized. I sank back into my chair, each creak a mournful groan that echoed the lament in my soul.

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Dawn approached, painting the eastern sky with streaks of pale grey and blood orange. Around the heavy oak table, my captains sat in weary silence. Their faces were drawn and tired from lack of sleep, their eyes bloodshot and dull. Armania Brine, usually so vibrant, slumped in her chair, her bow resting against the table, forgotten. Stewart Seral nervously picked at a gash on his arm, wincing with each touch. McCarthy Evans stared at the tabletop, his gaze distant, his normally jovial face etched with grief. Hera Rhadine, her youthful features pale and drawn, sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, as if holding herself together. Even Althea, our healer head, whose calm presence usually soothed the most troubled souls, looked weary and defeated. Hera had come in place of Rina, who I had ordered to rest and recover. The empty space beside me echoed Joshua's absence. Yesterday, he had sat there, full of life and strength, his booming voice rallying the troops. Now, there was only an aching void, a chilling reminder of the price we had paid.

We gathered in the ruins of an old watchtower perched on the ridge. Wind whistled through broken windows, carrying the stench of smoke and ash. A single candle flickered, casting long shadows across the grim faces of my captains.

Armania broke the silence, looking towards me. "My lord, I've prepared some defensive traps down the ridge. In case they attack, we'd have a slight advantage due to the steepness."

I nodded, though I didn't have much faith in the steepness of the ridge or Armania's traps. Those fanatics were inhumane; they would just charge again without thinking.

"Defending in an open place like this?" McCarthy scoffed, his weary voice laced with sarcasm. "I think it's best we retreat further to my father's territory."

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Armania shot to her feet, her exhaustion forgotten. "You think we would cower against those bastards? It's what he wants, that snake! He wants us to be scared, and you, Evans, it seems you've already soiled your britches!"

McCarthy didn't even flinch at Armania's outburst. He looked into my eyes, his brown eyes calculating, seeming to bore into my soul. The captain of my Aura Knights squad was certainly a cunning person. "My lord," he said, "you know defending is not possible in our current situation. So, why not change our situation a little?" He then looked towards Armania, his face expressionless. "My father's castle is perfect for withstanding a siege. Even before we came here, I told my father to prepare for it, to host you and your army, just in case."

His idea wasn't bad. It was actually a good one. Castle Baywater was indeed a good place for my army to withstand a siege. But would Mumtaz just pass by and attack Slacia without considering that we might attack them from behind? It was a gamble, to be frank. I looked towards Valiyan, but his eyes darting towards the map on the table, lost in thought. There was another problem with this plan...

I looked towards Althea, the healer head. "Do you think we can move freely with the wounded?"

"It would be tough, but..." she began.

Her voice was cut off by the sudden arrival of a soldier. He stumbled through the doorway, his chest heaving, his face pale. My personal messenger. He frantically approached and kneeled before me. "My lord," he gasped, "an army approaches us! From the west!"

"An army? From the west, could it be...?" I muttered, urging him to continue.

"Our scouts confirmed that it is the mountain people, my Lord. Led by Baron Beaumont," he continued.

Maybe God hadn't abandoned me after all. A wave of excitement rippled around the table. Even Valiyan's eyes widened in surprise. An army. Reinforcements. It was what we needed most. The Duke had sent an army! I knew he wouldn't abandon us.

"There's more news," the soldier stammered. I nodded for him to continue. "The enemy has started to move. Though it seems they are retreating towards Sandcastle."

This news sparked even more commotion. Valiyan shot to his feet, hope flickering in his eyes. "Are you certain, soldier?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned to me, his eyes blazing with renewed purpose. "We can win this now, Merwin! Knowing Mumtaz, he'll wait for us at Sandcastle. With Baron Beaumont at our side, we have a real chance to crush them!"

I nodded, a surge of renewed determination coursing through me. "Indeed," I declared, my voice ringing with authority. "With Baron Beaumont's support, we can turn the tide of this war." I turned to my captains, my gaze sweeping over their weary faces. "I need a moment to confer with the Baron. In the meantime, I expect you to formulate a plan of attack. We will reconvene shortly."

With that, I strode out of the watchtower, eager to greet our unexpected allies and assess their strength. Looking towards the distant horizon, I could see the approaching army.

The mountain people. They were a breed apart, inhabiting the harsh, unforgiving terrain of the Shaniyar mountains. They formed the first line of defense against the Elven raiders from the north.

They were renowned for their ferocity in battle, one of the most formidable battalions in the Duke's army. That's why he kept them as his Direct bannermen, a wild card to be unleashed when the need was dire. And leading them was none other than Baron Beaumont, the chieftain of the seven tribes that inhabited those rugged heights.

I had first met him two years ago, when we were both common soldiers, fighting side-by-side in a skirmish against Elven raiders. Now, he was the leader of his people, and I a Count, burdened with the responsibility of defending my lands. Much had changed in those intervening years.

I had seen him recently at the meeting in Icia, and his demeanor had remained unchanged. His haughty nature, blunt speech, and disdain for the niceties of courtly life... perhaps these were traits common among the mountain people. He lacked the polish of a nobleman, but his battle prowess were undeniable.

As their column drew closer, I saw Beaumont himself riding at the forefront, a figure that commanded attention. He was a bear of a man, clad in furs and leather. A massive battle axe was strapped to his back. His eyes, hard and flinty, met mine.

"Dreynoir!" he boomed as he approached, his voice a thunderclap that echoed across the battlefield. "I see you've made a bit of a mess of things here!" He gestured towards the carnage with a dismissive sweep of his axe, his tone laced with a gruff amusement.

I bristled at his blunt assessment, but I kept my voice even. "Baron Beaumont," I replied, "your arrival is most welcome, though I confess it comes somewhat later than I had hoped.

He let out a booming laugh that echoed through the ridge. The sound was as rough and untamed as the mountains he called home. "Late? Bah! We arrived precisely when you needed us, it seems. About to scurry back to your holes, weren't you?"

"We were strategically repositioning," I corrected him, my voice tight with suppressed irritation.

"Repositioning?" Beaumont scoffed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "That's a fancy word for retreat." He dismounted with a heavy thud that sent tremors through the ground. "But no matter. We're here now. Those Rhoadnian curs won't know what hit them."

His gaze hardened, the laughter fading from his eyes. "But first," he added, "we rest. My warriors have traveled far, and they need to replenish their strength before we march on Sandcastle."

I nodded in agreement. "Join us, Baron. We have matters to discuss before we confront the enemy." I gestured towards the watchtower.

Beaumont grunted in assent and followed me into the crumbling structure. His retinue trailed behind him, three rugged men and a woman with a fierce countenance.

The meeting room, already cramped, felt even smaller with the addition of Beaumont's warriors. My captains shifted uneasily. Armania glared at the newcomers, her hand hovering near her sword. Even Valiyan, usually eager for a fight, sat with his arms crossed and jaw clenched. Tension filled the room.

"This is Valka, my lead archer," Beaumont announced. Valka nodded, her sharp gaze sweeping over the captains.

"And Gryff," Beaumont continued, indicating the hulking warrior with a scarred face and a menacing aura. Gryff cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the tense silence.

"Torvald," Beaumont said, nodding towards the younger man, who fidgeted nervously with the daggers at his belt. Torvald offered a hesitant grin, his eyes darting around the room.

"And Erikson," Beaumont finished, gesturing to the elder with a long white beard that flowed down to his waist. Erikson leaned on his staff, his eyes filled with knowing.

I introduced my captains in turn, each offering a brief nod to Beaumont and his companions. I took my seat at the head of the table, motioning for Beaumont to sit opposite me. He settled heavily into the chair, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

"Sandcastle is a poor place for a siege," Armania declared, her gruff voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. "Those desert rats have chosen a weak position. We should strike swiftly and decisively, overwhelming them before they can dig in."

Valiyan, ever eager for a fight, nodded in agreement. "The she-wolf speaks true. Sandcastle is no fortress. We can break through their defenses with a concentrated assault."

McCarthy, however, raised a cautious objection. "My lord, we cannot underestimate Mumtaz. He is a cunning opponent, and this could be a trap."

"He's trying to lure us into a killing ground," I agreed, my mind replaying the devastating events of the previous battle. "We need to be cautious."

"Cautious?" Beaumont scoffed, his voice booming with disdain. "By the mountain gods, you plainsmen are all the same—timid and soft! Where's the glory in caution?"

"Baron Beaumont," I said, forcing myself to remain calm in the face of his bluster, "I understand your eagerness for battle, but we need a strategy that will ensure victory, not just a bloodbath. And there's another factor to consider... a black flame Spellbringer."

A hush fell over the room as I described the Spellbringer's attack. My captains exchanged uneasy glances. Beaumont and his retinue listened intently. All except one.

"A black flame user," a voice murmured, breaking the silence. It was the old man, Erikson, his eyes narrowed with concern.

"If you know something, then spit it out, old man," Torvald interjected, his impatience and eagerness making him seem more like a restless youth than a seasoned warrior.

Erikson fixed his gaze on Beaumont, then turned to me, his voice low and grave. "I know little, but black flames are whispered to be the most dangerous flames that ever existed, surpassing even the legendary blue flames. And they are said to be connected to the ancient royal family of the great empire."