Within the imposing walls of the castle, the sound reverberated like thunder, shaking the stone corridors and trembling the foundations as if the very earth had bent under the weight of the approaching war. Dravenmoor, seated on his throne, exuded an aura of unshaken silence until that moment. But upon hearing that resounding sound — a harbinger of destruction — his body tensed. His eyes glimmered with an almost predatory ferocity, and, with a sudden movement, he rose from the throne with a speed that belied his advanced age.

Finally! His voice was deep and sharp as steel. His chest rose with heavy breaths, his blood boiling in his veins. He was possessed by a feverish drive for action, and nothing could hold him back. His eyes fixed on the door, a hunter’s gleam etched into his expression. He knew what that sound meant. He knew the hunt was about to begin.

Without another word, Dravenmoor stormed forward, his boots echoing across the stone floor as he raced through the corridors in a frenzy. His heart pounded fiercely, adrenaline coursing through him, and he cared for nothing else now. War had come, and he would be the first to taste its raw flesh.

Elsewhere, in the chamber where the prisoners were held, Cerys maintained her composed demeanor. She stood in the shadows, watching the captives with sharp eyes, like a serpent ready to strike. She knew the prince, a pawn on the board, was close to being found. The sound signaled the enemy’s arrival. The noose was tightening. But her calm was absolute.

It seems they’ve found the prince. Her voice was smooth yet laced with certainty. She glanced at the prisoners, sensing the rising tension. But don’t worry, the army will surround him soon enough. He’ll be joining you shortly.

The chill in her words carried a different weight. Cerys cared little for Aemon’s capture. She had a larger objective in mind. She approached the window, her piercing eyes scanning the horizon as if she could already see the future unraveling before her. Deep down, she knew nothing could alter the fate sealed that night.

The prisoners, weak and exhausted, barely managed to lift their heads. Their spirits were shattered, devoid of hope, and Cerys’s words felt more like mockery than a promise. They knew the enemy army was closing in, but what did that mean for them? Nothing more than a painful and imminent end.

As Dravenmoor charged toward the battle, the shadows of night deepened over the castle, and the storm drew closer — a storm that would consume all who dared defy destiny.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

As the enemy army approached, the soldiers of Volcrist began to feel the crushing weight of despair. The wave of men, armed to the teeth, advanced like an impenetrable wall. The overwhelming number of adversaries felt like a death sentence, and fear spread like a plague among the soldiers. Every breath was heavy, every gaze lost in the looming prospect of massacre. They knew victory was unthinkable, that their chance of survival was as fragile as the flame of a candle about to be extinguished.

The soldiers' faces were marked by panic, and as the sound of enemy boots grew closer, many began to retreat without even realizing it, guided by their survival instinct. Some exchanged glances, unsure whether to fight or flee. Chaos was imminent, and in their hearts, they knew there were no resources, no strength, no time. The battle was already lost.

Aemon observed all of this in silence. He did not feel fear—not now. Despair did not touch him. He already knew the damage was done, that the chances of survival were slim, and that soon he would meet his end there, among the flames and blood. But one thing he still had, and that was his dignity. He would face the end with his head held high. There was nothing left to do. Fate was approaching, and he would confront it with the same intensity with which he had lived.

Yet something strange was happening. The enemy army, with all its overwhelming strength, was approaching with an almost unsettling calm. Though victory was within their grasp, their steps did not indicate an immediate attack. On the contrary, the men moved with unusual hesitation, as if something—or someone—made them think twice. The atmosphere shifted, from imminent carnage to something more... tense. Slowly, they began to part.

“It seems they’re afraid of the prince...” said a young soldier, his voice trembling, almost a whisper. His gaze was fixed on Aemon, as if he were the last line between life and death.

The soldier seemed unable to believe what he was seeing, as if the mere fact that Aemon was standing there, unwavering, had caused some discomfort among the enemies. He didn’t seem even remotely afraid. Yes, he was a prince, but what he exuded now was far more than that. It was the presence of a man who, even in his final hour, would not bow to anyone.

Aemon, his eyes fixed ahead, watched as the enemy soldiers stepped back, parting to make way. Something was happening—something beyond his immediate understanding. He noticed figures standing out among the ranks, shadows moving with peculiar agility. They were clearing the path for someone’s arrival. And that, more than anything, made him question.

Who could it be? Who in the enemy army would dare to step forward? He didn’t know, but he was ready. The end was coming, and he was determined to face it, no matter who it was.

Despite their superior numbers, the enemies did not advance. Something—or someone—was holding them back. And the tension in the air became almost tangible.