1611 A.D. (The Great Dissension)
The relentless rain showered the land, casting a shroud of darkness as ominous clouds blotted out the sun. Illuminated only by sporadic lightning strikes, the castle of the Rheatonseys stood in stark contrast against the night. At its gates, cavalrymen, donned in the colors of House Rheatonsey—a black flag with red outlines and the image of a roaring wyvern—awaited their lord, Engar.
Inside the castle, Engar Rheatonsey, the newly appointed lord, sat in his chambers, a swirl of concerns clouding his thoughts. The impending birth of his child added to his unease, especially considering the suspicions surrounding his wife, Cynthia. Her ties to the Yaguls, a family allied with a witch coven, fueled distrust among his kin. Cynthia faced persecution due to her family's history of forbidden magic, and her marriage to Engar only intensified the suspicions.
As the storm raged outside, Engar anxiously awaited news of the birth. Cynthia's acceptance within the family was tenuous, and the child's arrival carried the weight of uncertainty. The midwives attending Cynthia's labor exchanged uneasy glances, signaling Engar to join them. An air of tension enveloped the room.
Amidst Cynthia's agonizing cries, a baby boy emerged, his eyes bearing an unsettling resemblance to the color of blood—or a rose. The head midwife conveyed the news to Engar, her voice trembling with unease. Engar, anticipating the worst, inquired anxiously, "What is it!?... What's wrong!?"
"The baby is in good health, my lord, but..." the midwife hesitated, her words heavy with a revelation.
"Say no more, thank you," Engar responded, his worried expression deepening. Yvanna and other family members exchanged looks of surprise, which quickly transformed into disdain.
Yvanna, Engar's mother, approached him with a disdainful sneer. "Engar! Didn't we warn you of this?! You shouldn't have married that witch! That whore!"
"Mother! Watch your tongue," Engar snapped. "That is my wife you speak of." Despite the gravity of the situation, Engar retained his composure. "I will return to speak with you all soon, wait here." Engar left the room, his mother's derogatory words echoing in his mind as he hurried towards Cynthia's chambers. The implications of his son's unusual eyes lingered in his thoughts, overshadowing the joy of becoming a father.
Upon entering Cynthia's chambers, Engar found solace in the sight of his wife and newborn son. Cynthia, adorned with a golden flower clip in her hair, looked exhausted but beautiful. The baby, despite the odd color of his eyes, appeared like any other newborn. Engar's emotions swirled between happiness and concern as he approached Cynthia's bedside.
"Cynthia, my love, what has happened to our son? Are the rumors about your past responsible for this?" Engar inquired, the weight of uncertainty evident in his voice.
Cynthia, tears streaming down her face, gently placed her hands on Engar's face. "My love, I am exhausted. Please, I will tell you everything in time, but I beg you to have patience."
Engar squeezed Cynthia's hand reassuringly. "Okay, my love, I look forward to our conversation." He placed a tender kiss on his son's head. "His name shall be Zarek, the name my father once carried with pride." Wiping away his tears, Engar stood up. "Until I return, my love."
Exiting the room, Engar returned to his chambers, where his family members awaited. Flustered, he flung the door open, startling them. Engar's cousin, a short and stout man, rose from his seat. "So, what of the child?" he inquired, wiping sweat from his forehead. Engar met their expectant gazes with furrowed brows.
"A male child has been born to me. He has flaws, but he is still my son. If any of you disapprove of his birth, raise your hands so I may see." Engar's stern gaze scanned the room, but only one hand ascended—his mother's. Engar scowled at her defiance. "And why do you disapprove of his birth, mother?"
As his mother lowered her trembling hands, her voice faltered as she attempted to articulate her thoughts. "As your mother and as the former lady of this house, I have the right to speak—"
"Answer me, mother!" Engar snapped. "Why do you disapprove? Why should I renounce the claim to my son?!"
"Because he and that witch will be your downfall! Her family murdered your father. What do you think she will do to you?!"
Before Engar could respond, a low wail interrupted him. Engar raised a finger, signaling for silence. "You will accept my son, or you will renounce your title as a former lady of this house. Now, where is my Fabien?"
A tear ran down his mother's face, but Engar stood firm in his decision. His mother knelt, picked up his eldest son, Fabien, and handed him to his father. Engar held the young boy tightly and whispered, "What are you doing here, huh? You were supposed to be asleep." He said before placing a kiss on Fabien's forehead. His son did not respond but curled himself in embarrassment. Engar chuckled, "Guard the house for me, okay." He placed another kiss on Fabien's head before leaving.
Engar headed for the exit of the main building. At the exit, he was greeted by his servants holding his weapons and armor, heads bowed low. Engar's armor was raven black with silver outlines and the emboss of a wyvern on his breastplate. His sword was finely crafted with a silver wyvern on the hilt. The servants stepped away with haste, and Engar entered the bailey, walking with furious strides. It was a miracle he didn't fall as the rain, assisted by a powerful wind, blew right into his face. Outside was dark, barely allowing him to see in front. The lightning that struck was bright as if— The sun was beginning to break through the clouds but quickly returned to darkness. This was followed by thunderous booms that shook the castle.
Oblivious to the storm that surged, Engar walked toward the portcullis where his soldiers in their silver armor struck the ground once with their feet before giving a salute. "My lord!" The two men shouted.
They turned smoothly on their feet before walking through the portcullis. Waiting outside the gate was a young man, with a cleanly shaven face, black and messy hair, and blue eyes.
"Glad you had the patience to wait for me, Zorion," Engar said to him with a smile.
Zorion chuckled. "Well, don't expect it to be a regular occurrence." Zorion's happy expression quickly turned to seriousness as he took a scroll from his bag. "I see you are in good spirits, so that means that the child is in good health?" Engar rested his arm on the hilt of his sword. "Aye, he is; a beautiful baby boy was delivered."
Zorion outstretched his arm with the scroll in hand. It had the seal of the king, a four-pointed star with a hole in the middle. "May the Gods give him a long and happy life, but we have other matters... here, a message from the king!" He held a torch over the letter scroll. Engar's eyebrows furrowed in concentration as his eyes darted from word to word. "What does it say?" Zorion asked curiously. Engar rolled the letter neatly, a sense of urgency on his face. "We need to return! The king is mobilizing for a counter-attack."
Engar and Zorion mounted their horses and made their way on a path that led to a hill. It was extremely dark, and as the lightning flashed, the silhouette of many men on horseback was revealed to Zorion and Engar. They both finally reached the hill where fifty men all on horseback were awaiting their lord. The men all were red and black, but a man who stood out of the group wore a helmet with a feather sprouting from the top. "Captain," Engar said with a nod. The man slightly bowed, "My lord. It seems Phabus's favor is not with us today," he said as he looked at the dark clouds overhead. "It would seem so, but no time to dwell on it, Captain; we have to return to camp." The captain nodded once more before lifting the reins of the horse, "Well, then let's make haste," He charged ahead of the other horsemen before issuing a command. "Let's move out!"
The journey was long—a week to be exact—before they arrived at camp. Tents stretched as far as the eye could see. Some wore the banners of other noble houses, the most notable ones being the banners of the Bronzemonds and Trounnengs. The Bronzemonds had a red and white banner with a bronze hand and an eye in the palm, with crowned feathers at the bottom. The other banner was the Trounnengs: it had a golden feather at the bottom with two other feathers sprouting from the sides, and the flag was brown and with a golden outline. They were the richest and most influential houses that brought more men than the other noble houses combined.
Engar and his men made their way into the King's camp. The biggest tent out of all of them was the king's and it was red with golden embroidery. Engar and Zorion headed straight into the tent without resistance from the guards who stood outside. Inside the tent, and standing around a table were the nobles of Selediano, and at the end of the table was King Alfonso Saifuddien, a tall man with black hair and strong facial features. Even though King Saifuddien was a sight to behold; the attention of the nobles turned to Engar and Zorion. They both quickly bowed before Engar spoke, "Your Royal Highness! I sincerely apologize for my late arrival; I hope you may find it in your heart to forgive us" Engar said.
For a good second, the room was quiet as the nobles' gazes were locked on Engar, and then at the king before the silence was broken with boisterous laughter, with the king's laugh drowning out everyone else's. "Enough with the formalities Engar!" Saifuddien assured with a rough voice. Engar arose with a grin painted across his face followed by Zorion. They found a spot on the table where they awaited the king's orders. It was cold, but the fire in the metal hearth kept the room relatively warm.
Saifuddien set his jaw and rested his hands on the table his facial expression turning serious. A feeling of anxiety spread throughout the room. Finally, Saifuddien spoke. "For years, the citizens of Selediano have been plagued with anxiety and fear. Three hundred years ago, our ancestors won the battle of Grafrevingo, and a hundred years later they survived the Xaeqith Gateway Cataclysm, which still left millions of monsters roaming this continent. Now, we are dealing with a threat less bad than what our ancestors endured, and we will overcome it with strength and tenacity the likes they had never seen before."
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The nobles, including Engar, nodded and responded, "Aye!"
King Saifuddien stepped away from the table and stood at ease. "Enough rambling from me. Alexander, I invite you to lay down the plan for our attack." Without haste, a man who wore his hair in a ponytail began to move where the King previously stood. He was covered in black armor with golden edges, covered with a silver coat, and he carried a sword with a golden pommel. He cleared his throat before speaking. "My lords!" Alexander said while drawing a long and thin metal rod from his coat. Alexander rests the tip of the rod on the map. "We will be outnumbered, but have no fear, my lords. We will still have the upper hand. They are many, but they will be lightly armored, and our cannons positioned on the hill will make light work of their infantry. Our Army will be divided into nineteen regiments. We shall be stationed at the rear, and in front of us, will be five regiments of swordsmen. In front of the swordsmen, regiments will be eight spearmen regiments, the last spearmen regiment will guard the regiments of archers at the head of the entire army. Our cavalry will guard each flank. It is a simple plan, but it will work, considering the rag-tag band we will be dealing with," Alexander said, confident in his plan.
A round of applause and laughter erupted from the tent but Engar stood indifferent to the boost of morale. Engar grumbled, "Don't get your hopes up too high; they are ruthless and cunning," Engar advised. The applause came to a halt, and the attention was now on Engar.
"Don't you have faith?" A noble inquired.
Engar stood up straight, showing he was not intimidated by the looks he received. "Forgive me, my lords, but faith isn't going to save
me from a firebolt. I have faith in skills and tactics because that is what wins battles. This might look good on parchment, but let's see how you all do when the fighting starts." He received some scowls but that is all they could do, scowl. "I hear you, Engar. but we are at a loss for time. We need to strike fast and hard. Anyway, get your men ready... we start tomorrow," Saifuddien commanded.
The nobles began to leave, including Engar and Zorion. The once relatively silent tent began to bustle with the chatter of the aristocrats. "Zorion, are you ready?" Engar asked concerned.
Zorion raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm not?" He scoffed, surprised at Engar's concern.
"Well, you're young—probably the youngest commander in the history of Selediano!" Engar affirmed.
"Don't you worry about me, old man; I'll be fine-"
Fire burst from the hearth, stopping Engar and Zorion in their tracks. The other nobles whipped their heads around, startled. The king reeled backward, his hands blocking his face from the intense heat. Even through all this chaos, something seemed peculiar to Engar; the fire didn't rise or fall back into the hearth. It stood frozen in one place but still crackled and waved. It slowly began to form an emotionless face as if the fire wore a mask. The fire sputtered before suddenly, and a female voice emerged from the face formed by the fire. It sounded as if multiple people spoke at once, and her voice reverberated through the tent. "You will be annihilated!" She said followed by a chuckle. "You are alone in this fight; darkness will consume you, and death will plague your people. The gateway is just the beginning; the supreme who comes after will command a great and ghastly army. Death comes closer every hour."
They all watched in horror and shock at the sight before them; some even dropped to their knees, eyes widened. Before she could utter another word, Alexander outstretched his right arm, runes formed on his hand, and a gush of cold air filled the room, slowly extinguishing the fire. As a final hurrah, the fire condensed into a small ball before flying to the top with lightning speed, and with the force of a cannon, a loud explosion burst a hole into the top of the tent, knocking everyone to the ground.
Engar looked at the gray sky through the hole, his mouth opened in shock. After what felt like minutes of staring in disbelief, Engar finally came back to his senses. "The king, The King!" He shouted in horror.
He ran to Saifuddien, followed by the other nobles. The king's face was covered in ash, and his body looked lifeless. Engar put his hands on the king's neck; he was still alive. He stood up, blowing a sigh of relief. "Get him to the healer!" Engar commanded. The soldiers from outside rushed in and grabbed the King. The anger in Engar's body was now searing. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist, blood beginning to stream down his palms. This was an unforgivable act, and may the gods help whoever stood in his way.
Several weeks had passed. The king's army marched day and night toward the location where the battle would take place. Finally, they arrived. They arrived on an open field where a battalion of men already waited, scouting for the approach of the enemy. The two magic cannons were already stationed on the hill with the gunners in position already manning them. With the order from our general, and a blow from the trumpets. The army marched to their assigned positions. Outside was gray, and not a beam of light emerged from the thick clouds. Engar sat atop a horse at the back of the king's army fifty-thousand men strong alongside his fellow noblemen. The air was still, and not a single sound was heard besides the scavs circling overhead. Ahead of the army was a tree line, and the sound of men marching was emerging from the forest. They were numerous but lightly armored in black. Man after man emerged from the forest onto the field with some persons who looked to be commanders heavily armored with skull helms.
X
The sudden, earsplitting shot from the magic cannons marked the commencement of the battle. My heart pounded violently in my chest, a symphony of fear and anxiety that left my limbs weak and trembling. Drawing a slow breath, I sought to calm my frayed nerves as we advanced, propelled by the relentless fury of the cannons raining destruction upon the enemy positions. The thunderous sound of artillery hitting its mark sent shivers down my spine, and despite the sympathy I harbored for those on the receiving end, their positions were now obscured by a swirling cloud of dust and dirt.
Amidst the terrifying silence, the rhythmic cadence of our marching men provided a modicum of reassurance. As an eternity seemed to pass, the far end of the battlefield remained eerily silent. At the command of our newly appointed general, the army came to a halt, yet the cannons continued their unyielding assault. Nervous murmurs among the nobility betrayed a collective uncertainty. "They can't already be all dead," voiced one nobleman. Though I too sought information, my gaze remained fixed on the ominous unknown.
"Enough!" bellowed our general, the king's brother, issuing orders for a cavalryman to scout ahead. With trepidation etched on the cavalryman's face, he charged into the smoke and fog, his horse's hooves resonating through the eerie quiet.
The interval before we heard the horse's return felt like an eternity. A sigh of relief escaped me, anticipating a clearer understanding of our circumstances. Horror gripped me as the horse emerged without its rider, disrupting our lines as it fled, eyes wide with fear and a bloody saddle. "Defensive formations!" our general's abrupt command set feet stomping and metal clanging as spearmen raised shields, their tips poised towards the looming enemy threat. Sword in hand, I prepared to thwart any plans the enemy might hatch.
Yet, as we readied for the imminent clash, an unexpected challenge befell us. It became increasingly difficult to steady my horse, a struggle shared by the noblemen around me and our cavalry. The battlefield resounded with the panicked neighs of our horses.
Turning my attention forward, the ominous sounds of whistling and crackling heralded the approach of four fiery volleys of magic. "Incoming!" the general's urgent warning filled the air. Illumination engulfed the sky and ground as the fire descended, each explosion sending a wave of wind that knocked me from my horse. The world blurred as screams of men and explosions pierced the chaos. The witch army, a formidable force, was descending upon us.
"Group up and prepare to charge!" the general commanded, the urgency reflected in his voice. In the disarray, Zorion emerged from the smoke. "My lord! Your horse?!" he asked, concern etched across his face. "Don't worry," I assured him. He left his horse and joined me, sword drawn. As we charged into the maelstrom, lines of soldiers clashed with uncontrollable fury, and the battlefield became a tableau of chaos and destruction.
To my horror, I confronted an enemy soldier, his scream and charge met with a newfound clarity and heartlessness within me. Runes formed on my hands as I channeled mana, strengthening my arms to block his attack and drive my sword deep into his stomach. The madness of battle enveloped me, and my blood quickened with bloodlust. Arrows from the enemy pierced my shoulder, the pain numbed by rage as I swatted away the arrow and thrust my weapon into another foe's face.
Hours passed, the field strewn with the bodies of fallen warriors. The general ordered a reconfiguration of our formation, an apparent strategic move in the face of the relentless witch army. However, my heart sank as men turned their backs to regroup, exposing themselves to the relentless onslaught. "Group up and hold the line!" I shouted desperately, hoping my cries would reach the ears of our beleaguered men.
The black horde charged toward us, trampling their fallen comrades. The magic cannons continued to wreak havoc, hurling bodies into the air. The general maintained control over one regiment of swordsmen, sending them forth to reinforce the precarious formation he was constructing. Men fell one by one as they retreated, their backs exposed to the merciless enemy.
Amid this slaughter, I infused magic into my arms, tightening my grip on my weapon. A noble on horseback approached, extending his arm. "Engar!" he shouted. I took his hand, mounting the horse as we sped toward the formation. I leaped off the horse as we reached our destination, running toward the general. "Your Highness, we must hold this line!" I pleaded, but the cowardly retreat continued as the king's brother, accompanied by other nobles, fled the battlefield.
Zorion approached, wide-eyed with shock at the spectacle. "It is ok, Zorion," I assured him. "If we die, we die giving these bastards a fight they will never forget. Now, give me your horse." Zorion complied, and I joined the soldiers who still fought. "Fall back and hold a defensive line!" I commanded.
Looking at the gunners on the hill, I signaled for them to fire at the enemy. The support from the cannons allowed the remaining men to retreat, but we had lost a third of our army, and the dark horde showed no signs of relenting.
Heading to the front of the army, I raised my sword high and began to speak, the cannons battering the advancing witch army. "Men of Selediano, your leaders have abandoned you. They have left you to face the onslaught of a horde that knows no morals or values. Traitors have come to conquer a land they've betrayed! I ask you this day to fight not for your king or me but for your family's future, for yourself. Because at the end of the day, no one can save you but you! Today is as far as they'll go. Summon your courage, summon your strength. Let's give these bastards a trip to their masters from the Shadow Isles!"
The defensive line erupted in cheers. If we failed here, our kingdom would be brought to ruin. The gunners ceased firing, but it mattered not; we held the line and braced for the witch army's relentless advance. Dismounting my horse, I took cover behind the shield of a spearman, ready for the impending clash.
The Battle of Lockwood concluded as a pyrrhic victory. The Witch army, battered and forced into retreat, withdrew from the battlefield. However, the men of Selediano, despite achieving success, were too depleted and fatigued to pursue the retreating enemy. The toll of the relentless conflict left them exhausted, and the somber reality set in that this hard-fought, seemingly futile battle had done little to alter the grim predicament of the Principality of Selediano. The shadow of uncertainty loomed over the future years, casting a pall of unease and apprehension.