The climb toward Volcrist was steep and treacherous, the rocky path winding through the darkened wilderness like a serpent. The orange glow of the fires grew brighter as they approached, casting flickering shadows against the towering cliffs. The scent of smoke mixed with the sharp mountain air, filling their lungs with a grim reminder of what awaited them.

The first signs of the enemy came into view as they reached the outskirts of the great village that encircled the castle of Volcrist. From their vantage point, Aemon and his soldiers could see the silhouettes of enemy men stationed on the wooden watchtowers scattered throughout the village. The towers were simple but effective, high enough to provide a commanding view of the streets below. Torchlight flickered in the hands of the sentries, their shadows dancing like ghosts against the wooden planks.

Aemon raised a hand, signaling for the soldiers to stop. They crouched low, blending into the darkness of the forest's edge. He scanned the scene, his sharp eyes noting every detail—the movements of the sentries, the positioning of the towers, and the faint sound of muffled voices carried on the wind.

One of the soldiers, his voice barely above a whisper, leaned closer to Aemon. — “My lord, their numbers… there are too many. How can we overcome them?”

Aemon’s gaze remained fixed on the village as he spoke, his voice steady but laced with a cold determination.

— “We don’t.”

The soldier furrowed his brow, confused. — “What do you mean, my lord?”

Aemon finally turned to face the men behind him, his expression calm but unyielding. — “We don’t fight them head-on. That would be suicide. If we charge into the village, they’ll sound the alarm, and we’ll be overwhelmed before we can even reach the gates of the castle.”

He crouched lower, motioning for the others to do the same. His voice dropped, barely audible, forcing them to lean in to catch his words.

— “We kill them silently, in the shadows. One by one. We flank their positions, strike from angles they won’t expect. We move like the wind—swift, invisible, and deadly. If we’re careful, they’ll never know we were here until it’s too late.”

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. This was not the way they were used to fighting. They were men of honor, trained to face their enemies in the light of day, sword against sword. But Aemon’s eyes burned with a ferocity that brooked no argument.

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— “Follow my lead,” — Aemon said, his tone brooking no argument. — “And do exactly as I say. If any of you can’t stomach what’s coming, turn back now. But if you’re with me, I expect nothing less than perfection. Understood?”

The men nodded silently, their expressions hardening with resolve.

Aemon turned back to the village, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His sharp gaze swept the scene once more, calculating their next move. He pointed to a cluster of trees that provided cover near the edge of the village.

— “We’ll move to that grove first. Stay low, stay quiet, and for the love of the gods, keep your blades sheathed until I give the signal. No mistakes.”

The group began to move, their steps careful and deliberate as they crept through the underbrush. The forest was eerily quiet, the only sounds the soft rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant crackle of flames from the village.

As they reached the grove, Aemon raised a fist, signaling them to halt. He crouched behind the thick trunk of an old tree, peering out at the nearest watchtower. The sentry above was lazily pacing, his torchlight casting long shadows across the ground.

Aemon turned to one of the soldiers, a young man with a bow slung across his back. — “Your shot,” — he whispered, pointing to the sentry.

The archer nodded, his hands steady as he drew an arrow from his quiver and notched it to the string. He pulled back, the bowstring creaking softly as he took aim. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the air heavy with tension.

Then the arrow flew, cutting through the air with a faint whistle. The sentry barely had time to react before the arrow struck him in the throat. He crumpled silently, his torch falling from his grasp and extinguishing as it hit the ground.

Aemon gave a sharp nod, his lips curving into a faint smile.

— “Good. Now, we move.”

One by one, they advanced through the village, moving like shadows in the night. The enemy soldiers, drunk on their victory and the spoils of Volcrist, were unprepared for the quiet death that stalked them. Aemon led the way, his movements fluid and precise, his blade flashing in the firelight as he dispatched enemy after enemy.

The soldiers followed his example, their initial hesitation giving way to grim determination. For every sentry they took down, their confidence grew. They were no longer simple guards of Volcrist—they were hunters, and the village was their prey.

As they moved closer to the castle gates, Aemon paused, wiping a streak of blood from his cheek. He turned to the men, his voice low but firm.

— “This is only the beginning. The real battle lies ahead. But tonight, we fight for Volcrist. For every man, woman, and child who has bled for this city. We fight in the shadows because it’s what must be done. And when the sun rises, we will stand victorious.”

The soldiers nodded, their eyes burning with a fierce light. Together, they pressed onward, their resolve unshakable, their footsteps silent as death itself.