As they pressed forward through the blood-soaked streets of Volcrist, the nightmare only deepened. The fires crackled in the distance, casting flickering shadows of ruin across the cobblestone roads. Broken homes lined their path, the air heavy with the smell of ash and decay. The once-bustling city was now a graveyard, where the living were outnumbered by the dead. Aemon led the way with silent resolve, his boots squelching through the crimson pools that painted the earth beneath them. His face was a mask of cold determination, unyielding as his gaze stayed fixed on the castle looming ahead.

Behind him, the soldiers followed, their faces pale and haunted. The scene around them sapped their courage; some struggled to suppress their nausea while others clenched their weapons tightly, their knuckles white. They marched in the prince's shadow, drawn both by duty and the grim gravity of his silent wrath. Yet, none could ignore the truth in his eyes—Aemon’s fury was no longer that of a noble prince, but of a predator thirsting for vengeance.

As they approached the inner city, the sounds of depravity reached their ears. Laughter echoed from enemy soldiers who had made themselves at home in the chaos. Drunken shouts, crude jeers, and the anguished cries of the innocent painted a sickening melody over the burning ruins. Aemon crouched low, signaling his men to halt as they reached the outskirts of the castle town.

Ahead, a group of enemy soldiers was gathered around a makeshift bonfire, bottles in hand. Their weapons leaned carelessly against the rubble, and their guard was down. Among them, women—captured survivors—were being dragged into the circle, their screams met with raucous laughter. One woman struggled desperately, clawing at the ground as she was yanked by her hair toward the fire.

Aemon’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. He gestured sharply with his hand, motioning for his soldiers to remain silent and keep moving. The castle was their target. Engaging now, in the open, would be reckless.

But then, he heard it. The unmistakable scuff of boots halting behind him. Aemon froze and turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. One of the soldiers—a younger man with trembling hands—had stopped. His gaze was fixed on the scene ahead, his breathing ragged. The young soldier’s face twisted with fury as he looked at the woman struggling for her life.

Aemon whispered harshly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade:

"Don’t. Stay in formation. We don’t have the numbers for this."

But it was too late. The young soldier’s body tensed, and before Aemon could finish his warning, the man bolted forward, sword drawn, a cry of rage tearing from his throat.

"Damn it!" Aemon hissed through clenched teeth. His hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his blade, but he did not move immediately. He knew the folly of this action—the sound of clashing steel would alert every enemy in the area. His soldiers looked at him, waiting for his decision, their eyes wide with uncertainty.

The charging soldier reached the group of enemies with a feral yell. The drunken men barely had time to react before his blade carved through the first, blood spraying into the firelight. The woman screamed as chaos erupted. One of the soldiers grabbed for his weapon, but the young man struck again, his blade sinking into the man’s chest.

The remaining enemies, though drunk, quickly rallied, shouting for reinforcements as they grabbed their weapons. Aemon cursed under his breath, his mind racing. He had no choice now. The damage was done.

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He unsheathed his sword with a sharp hiss, his voice low and venomous.

"Fine. If they want a fight, let’s give them one. No survivors."

His soldiers hesitated, still unsure if this was a command born of strategy or anger. But when Aemon stepped forward, his eyes burning with cold determination, they followed. One by one, they drew their weapons, their fear replaced by grim resolve.

Aemon moved like a shadow, his blade flashing in the firelight as he reached the fray. The first enemy turned toward him, sword raised, but he never had the chance to swing. Aemon’s blade sliced cleanly across his throat, blood spurting as the man fell to his knees. Without pause, the prince whirled, his movements precise and calculated, cutting down another foe.

The drunken enemies were no match for Aemon’s fury or the discipline of his soldiers. The skirmish was over in moments, the last enemy falling with a gurgled cry as Aemon’s sword pierced his heart.

When the dust settled, the young soldier who had initiated the attack knelt beside the rescued woman, helping her to her feet. She was trembling, her face streaked with tears and soot. Aemon approached, his expression hard. The soldier looked up, his face pale but defiant.

"I couldn’t just leave her," he said, his voice shaking.

Aemon’s gaze was ice, his tone colder still.

"And now they know we’re here. If this costs us the city, their deaths will be on your head."

The soldier flinched but said nothing. Aemon turned to his men, his voice sharp as steel.

"No more mistakes. Move. Now."

The soldiers nodded, their steps more cautious now as they resumed their advance. Aemon’s mind churned with frustration, but he pushed it aside. They were closer to the castle now, the fires of the town giving way to the imposing shadow of the keep. His mission had not changed.

Volcrist would not fall. Not while he still drew breath.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, and the silence that surrounded them felt more like a prison than a strategy. Each step taken on the soil of Volcrist was heavy, as if the very ground itself was twisting under the weight of what had happened there. The deserted streets were like open scars, the crumbling buildings, and the distant screams still echoed in the shadows. They moved forward in the gloom, their steps soft, but the tension in the air was palpable, as if the city itself were watching them.

Then, like a gust of biting wind, the sound broke. A thunderous roar so loud it seemed to come from the bowels of the earth itself. It was as though the sky itself had torn open, a muffled and deafening sound that reverberated through the city and spread across the land, making Aemon's heart race. The ground seemed to shake beneath his feet, and the vibration of each wave of sound penetrated his soldiers' bones. It was like the roar of an ancient beast, awakening after centuries of silence. The sound traversed the skies and the earth, and soon it was ingrained in every breath.

Aemon stopped abruptly, his eyes scanning the darkness, trying to comprehend what he had just heard. He didn't know the sounds of war, but he knew this was different from anything he had ever experienced. The sound traveled through the city, causing the walls of the houses to tremble, and the shadows seemed to stretch in strange ways. He felt the change in the air, the shift in reality around him. Something was happening.

The prince turned to the general, his eyes narrowed, unable to understand what was going on. "What was that?" His voice was laced with uncertainty, almost as if he expected the sound to be an omen, a warning from the depths.

The general, with a grim expression, looked directly into Aemon's eyes. "Our death sentence," he replied with raw sincerity, as if those words had already been written in some dark book of Volcrist's history. He didn’t need to say anything more, for the words were imbued with a bitter, inevitable truth.

Aemon didn’t know what to do. The shock of the words made the blood in his veins run cold. The sound he had just heard was not merely a warning. It was a sentence. The enemy was coming, and the city of Volcrist, which he had sworn to protect, was already on the edge of the abyss.