The Iron Oath

Chapter I
 
The wheat swayed like a golden tide, rustling under a slow-moving wind. To a lesser man, it might have been a peaceful sight, the endless fields of Eichenfeld stretching toward the low green hills beyond. But Eadric had long since learned that peace was nothing but a pause between calamities.
 
He sat astride Sigurd, his destrier, the great beast shifting impatiently beneath him, its thick black mane tossing in the wind. Below the hill, a column of farmers trudged homeward, baskets heavy with barley and millet, their oxen pulling the last of the harvest back toward the granaries. Men had to eat. Armies had to eat. Peace had to be paid for, one cartload at a time.
 
Eadric had fought too many wars to take such things for granted. At his side, Bertram, his captain of the guard, was chewing a strip of dried beef with the expression of a man who had no use for scenery. Thick-necked, broad as an ox, with a nose that had been broken so many times it looked like a knotted tree root. "That's a good sight, my lord," he grunted, nodding toward the wagons below. "Enough food to see Eichenfeld through winter, even with the count's taxes bleeding us dry. No famine, no starving peasants turning to banditry, no need to start hanging folk from trees. That’s a rare thing."
 
Eadric only grunted. Bertram mistook his silence for agreement. But something was wrong. A feeling, low in his gut. Like the hush before a storm. Eadric had never put much faith in omens, but he had learned to trust his instincts. Instinct had kept him alive on too many battlefields to be ignored.
 
He turned his gaze west, toward the far side of the valley, where the trees clustered thick around Lake Romus.
 
Something was waiting. The wind changed. A horse screamed.
 
Eadric turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. At the far end of the road, beyond the farmers, a rider was galloping hard toward Eichenfeld manor. Even from a distance, he saw the stagger in the horse’s gait—lathered, spent, pushed too far. The rider slumped low in the saddle, his left arm hanging limp. Blood stained the side of his tunic. Eadric and Bertram spurred their mounts forward, cutting across the hillside, dirt and grass churning under hooves. By the time they reached the rider, he was barely holding on.
 
"Easy," Eadric said, grabbing the reins as the man slid sideways. A boy. Maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen. Face pale, eyes wide with terror.
 
"My lord," the boy gasped. "The—the road—"
 
Bertram caught him before he could hit the ground. "Breathe, lad," he growled. "Who did this?"
 
The boy's lips trembled. "Bandits. On the Romus crossing. They—they killed my father. Took the wagons. Not just outlaws, my lord." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "They were trained. They fought like knights."
 
Eadric's grip tightened on Sigurd's reins.
 
They found the merchant’s body hanging from an oak tree. The air was thick with the stench of burning grain. A ruined wagon lay tipped in the road, its axle split, sacks of flour ripped open and trampled into the dirt. Flies droned over the corpses—the merchant, his two guards, their throats slashed and bodies stripped to the bone. Eadric dismounted, stepping over the wreckage. Bertram crouched by the dead merchant, examining the cuts. "This wasn't the work of desperate men," he muttered. "Blade work’s too clean. Not a brawl. A cull."
 
Eadric said nothing. He was studying something else. A ring of blackened earth, just beneath the tree. Scorched, as if a fire had been set deliberately. No torches. No sign of a camp. Just… a message.
 
"You see it," Bertram grunted.
 
Eadric nodded. Yes, he saw it.
 
The way the bodies had been arranged. The way the fire had been set—not to destroy, but to be noticed. Not outlaws. Not a simple raid. This was a warning.
 
Someone had made a move against Eichenfeld.
 
That night, in the smoky confines of Eichenfeld’s great hall, Oswald—Eadric's spy—leaned against the long oak table, sharpening his dagger. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his face. Eadric knew that expression well.
 
"You have something," he said.
 
Oswald didn’t look up. Just kept sharpening.
 
"I always have something," he muttered. "But this? This is something else."
 
Eadric waited. Oswald enjoyed his games, but he also enjoyed breathing. He’d get to the point.
 
The spy finally set the dagger down.
 
"The men who hit the Romus crossing?" he said. "They weren’t just well-trained. They were paid. And not by some wandering bandit lord."
 
He slid a parchment across the table.
 
Eadric picked it up. Recognized the seal immediately.
 
Von Haaren.
 
A long, slow breath left his chest.
 
"That treacherous bastard," Bertram spat.
 
Eadric said nothing. He had known it would come to this. The border nobles had always eyed Eichenfeld with hunger, von Haaren more than most. He had too many sons and not enough land to divide among them. He wanted Eadric’s fief.
 
Chapter II
 
Another day came, and Eadric rose before the sun, as he always did. It was a soldier’s habit, beaten into him long before knighthood, and one that had never left him. Outside his chamber, the corridors of Eichenfeld Manor were still dark, the air cool with the night’s lingering chill. The old stones smelled of damp wood and cold hearth ash, but the scent of baking bread drifted from the kitchens, bringing with it the first signs of life.
 
He pulled on a simple tunic and strode barefoot across the wooden floor, the sound of his own footsteps muffled by the thick tapestries. His daughter was already awake. He found Isolde in the stables, sitting on an overturned bucket, whispering to a horse as she brushed its mane. Her feet barely touched the ground. Too young to be up this early, too stubborn to listen when told otherwise.
 
Eadric folded his arms, leaning against the stable door. “And what are you up to?”
 
Isolde didn’t turn. “Braiding.”
 
Eadric arched an eyebrow. “Braiding?”
 
She gestured at the stallion’s mane, woven with an uneven series of tiny knots. "Sir Bear tells me it’s a Snadovian tradition," she said.
 
"Sir Bear" was Bertram.
 
Eadric let out a slow sigh.
 
"Bertram tells you a lot of things."
 
"Uh-huh." She kept working, small fingers tying another knot. “Did you know that some knights do this before battle? It’s good luck.”
 
Eadric watched her hands. “That so?”
 
She nodded, serious as a priest. “He says it makes the horse faster. Like a bird.”
 
Eadric glanced at the stallion, a warhorse built like a blacksmith’s hammer, and wondered how much ale Bertram had swallowed before telling that tale.
 
“You don’t believe me,” Isolde said, finally looking up. Her hazel eyes—so much like Annaliese’s—narrowed in scrutiny.
 
Eadric smirked. “I believe Bertram has a loud mouth.”
 
She giggled, but before she could argue further, a voice called from the manor.
 
"Eadric!"
 
He turned. Annaliese stood by the doorway, Matthias in her arms, still half-asleep, cheek pressed against her shoulder. The boy was only three but already built like his father—heavy-limbed, warm-blooded, and grumpy when woken.
 
Eadric exhaled, stepping forward. A knight on the field. A father at home.
 
Some days, he didn’t know which was harder.
 
Later, a woman arrived at dusk, the child by her side. She came on foot, wrapped in a long hooded cloak of faded blue. Not a beggar—her stride was too smooth, too purposeful—but not a noble, either. She was tall, far taller than most women, her height masked only by the way she moved—fluid, almost weightless. The child with her clung to her hand, watching everything with wide, unnerving eyes.
 
Eadric watched from the manor’s steps as Bertram stopped them at the gate. He was wary of strangers. That made two of them.
 
"We don’t take wanderers," Bertram said.
 
The woman lifted her head slightly. Long ears, hidden beneath her hood. Eadric only caught a glimpse before the fabric shifted again, but it was enough to stir something uneasy in his chest.
 
Not normal. Not right.
 
"I only ask for food and shelter for the night," the woman said. Her voice was too smooth, too even, as if she spoke their tongue but had never struggled with it. "The child needs rest."
 
Eadric’s first instinct was to send them away.
 
A knight had enemies. Even ones he didn’t know about yet.
 
But the girl’s bare feet were red with walking.
 
And Annaliese was already at the gate, moving past Bertram before the old soldier could grumble further.
 
"Come in," she said.
 
That evening, they dined in the great hall, the fire casting shadows long across the stone walls. The woman—Lael'Selanis, she called herself—ate sparingly, her posture eerily still. The child—Alethea—ate hungrily, though, tearing at the soft bread Annaliese gave her. Eadric watched her. The uneasy feeling in Eadric's gut returned.
 
"You’re traveling far?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
 
Lael'Selanis met his gaze. "Far enough."
 
Not an answer.
 
Eadric had spoken with enough mercenaries and wandering exiles to know when someone was choosing their words carefully.
 
Still, she was no danger to him—not tonight.
 
So he let it be.
 
The woman left before dawn, the child’s eyes lingering on Eadric’s face before she turned to follow.
 
By the time the household awoke, the road was empty.
 
Only a single silver coin remained on the table where she had sat.
 
Chapter III
 
Eadric had barely put Lael'Selanis from his thoughts when the second blow fell. A fire, this time. Near the Eichenfeld stables.
 
The men put it out before it could spread, but the damage was clear. Three horses gone, another two crippled.
 
Eadric stood in the soot, running a hand over his face. The stench of burned hair still lingered.
 
Bertram, next to him, spat on the ground. "This was a message, my lord."
 
"Von Haaren’s getting bold."
 
"Aye." Bertram clenched his fists. "And he’s still trying to make it look like brigands."
 
Eadric exhaled slowly.
 
Patience. A knight needed patience. But patience did not come easy to men who had spent their lives fighting for every inch of ground beneath their feet.
 
Oswald confirmed it that evening.
 
"The bandits? Paid to set the fire. Von Haaren’s coin," he said, rolling a silver between his fingers.
 
Eadric studied the small flame on the table. Something inside him burned hotter.
 
Von Haaren was still testing him. Still waiting for him to make the wrong move. That would not happen.
 
Eadric wasn’t a fool. He had no noble blood to protect him, no family name to fall back on. If he fought a war, it would be a war he could win.
 
And if von Haaren wanted to keep pushing? Then it was time to push back.
 
Eadric stood by the window of his chamber, watching the torches below as his men gathered in the courtyard.
 
Bertram was waiting.
 
Oswald had done his work. The spies had spoken. The enemy had made their move.
 
Eadric exhaled, steady, controlled. Von Haaren wanted war. Then he would get one.
 
"Summon the riders," Eadric said.
 
He turned from the window. "We march at first light."
 
Chapter IV
 
The hooves of a hundred warhorses churned the earth as they rode through the lowlands, the rising sun bleeding over the fields like fresh-spilled wine. Eadric rode at their head, grim and silent. Behind him, Bertram muttered darkly about what they'd do to von Haaren’s men when they caught them.
 
"You're quiet," Bertram finally grunted, glancing at him.
 
Eadric said nothing.
 
He knew how men talked before battle. The bravado, the crude jokes, the nervous energy twisting its way through the ranks. He’d heard it all before. But this was not yet a battle. Not yet. Von Haaren had played the first move. Now it was Eadric’s turn. And he did not believe in wasted strokes.
 
Ahead, the road forked—one path leading toward the Romus crossing, the other skirting through the deep woods where the "bandits" were said to hole up between raids.
 
Eadric pulled Sigurd to a halt. "We split here," he said, voice sharp as steel.
 
Bertram frowned. "Not sure I like that."
 
"We're not here to blunder into a trap," Eadric replied. "If von Haaren is waiting, he'll expect us to ride straight in, swords drawn." He pointed to the woods. "Oswald says the mercenaries are hiding in the old hunting lodges along the ridge. If we flank them, we cut their escape off before they know we’re coming."
 
Bertram grunted. "And if he lied?"
 
Eadric shrugged. "Then we kill them either way."
 
A slow, wolfish grin crept across Bertram’s face.
 
He raised a fist, signaling to the riders. The company split.
 
The trees whispered as they moved through the forest. Thick trunks, gnarled and knotted, the roots curling like the bones of the dead. The smell of damp leaves and old wood hung in the air. Eadric rode at the front, his men silent as ghosts behind him. Warhorses were not meant for the woods, but these were trained creatures, bred for war. They did not spook easily.
 
A flicker of movement.
 
Eadric raised a fist.
 
The riders halted.
 
Silence.
 
Then, a snap of a branch.
 
Bertram exhaled, a quiet, knowing chuckle under his breath. "They're watching us."
 
"Of course they are," Eadric murmured. "They think we're riding blind."
 
He dismounted, motioning for the others to do the same. Steel whispered from scabbards.
 
Ahead, beyond the trees, a lodge sat in a clearing. Smoke curled from its chimney. Horses tied to posts. Not brigands' nags. Warhorses. Too well-bred for simple thieves.
 
There was no time for more thought.
 
One of Eadric's men loosed an arrow—the shaft burying itself in the throat of the sentry. The man gave a choked gurgle, collapsed, and then the world became steel and fire.
 
Shouts erupted.
 
Figures burst from the lodge, swords drawn. Eadric was already moving, drawing his longsword as he charged forward.
 
A man lunged. Too slow.
 
Eadric slammed his pommel into the man’s jaw, spun, and drove the blade through his ribs. He ripped it free, the spray of blood warm against his cheek.
 
Around him, the clearing became a storm of blades.
 
Bertram roared like a bear, cutting down two men in a single sweep. Another tried to flee—Oswald caught him from behind, knife flashing in the dark.
 
It was over in minutes.
 
Eadric stood in the clearing, breath fogging the air. Nine bodies lay in the dirt.
 
"Look," Bertram grunted, nudging a corpse with his boot. A sigil. A small, discreet emblem on the leather vest.
 
Eadric narrowed his eyes. Von Haaren’s crest.
 
So. He wasn’t even hiding it anymore.
 
Good.
 
Then there was no need to hide what came next.
 
 
Chapter V
 
Two days later, Eadric rode into Marcelia. The great stone keep loomed over the city like a vulture, the banners of Count Wilbert of Povazna snapping in the wind.
 
Eadric entered the hall without ceremony. No page announced him, no horns sounded. He did not bow when the Count turned his cold gaze upon him.
 
"My Lord," Wilbert said, voice like ice. "What brings you here?"
 
Eadric tossed something onto the table.
 
A severed hand.
 
The Count's steward paled. Hilbert? He barely blinked.
 
"Von Haaren’s men," Eadric said, his voice flat, emotionless. "They raided my land, burned my stables. Killed my people.”
 
Wilbert steepled his fingers. "So I hear."
 
Eadric’s knuckles tightened. "Then you also hear I have proof. The men I killed wore his colors."
 
The Count exhaled through his nose, a faint twitch of something—annoyance, amusement?
 
"You bring this before me," he murmured, "as though you expect me to pass judgment."
 
Eadric did not flinch. "You are the law in Marcelia."
 
"And the law must be upheld," Wilbert agreed. "But the law is… complicated."
 
A long silence.
 
Eadric had known it would go this way. The nobles always spoke in circles. Always weighed their decisions not by right, but by power.
 
So he would give Wilbert a choice.
 
"You can end this," Eadric said. "Or I will."
 
Wilbert studied him. "And if I do nothing?"
 
Eadric smiled. Cold. Slow. Inevitable.
 
"Then I will ride to von Haaren’s hold and burn it to the ground."
 
Wilbert let out a slow, quiet breath.
 
"You think you are untouchable, knight?"
 
"No," Eadric said. "I think I have nothing to lose."
 
Silence.
 
Then the Count gave the smallest, barest nod.
 
"You may have your justice," he said.
 
But the glint in his eye said something else.
 
"If you survive it."
 
Chapter VI
 
War was not just battle. War was numbers. War was steel and bread and the strength of men’s backs. War was the difference between who bled out in the mud and who lived to see the next harvest. Eadric had spent too many years fighting to romanticize war. And now, war had come for him.
 
They rode hard and fast from Marcelia. Eadric had two hundred men, veterans of border skirmishes and minor feuds, all riders. It was not an army, not in the sense of the great noble houses, but it was what he had.
 
And now, he had to use it well.
 
Von Haaren had more men. Twice as many. Infantry, crossbows, mercenaries—some of them the same ones that had burned Eichenfeld’s fields. A warlord’s army, not a knight’s retinue. They stopped outside the ruined manor of Hagenfels, a crumbling shell of a fort that had once belonged to a minor lord—one of von Haaren’s past victims. Now, it was a skeleton of stone, picked clean by scavengers, useful for nothing except what lay beyond it:
 
The River Wend.
 
A narrow, sluggish waterway that wound its way through the valley, carving deep, soft banks that turned to mud after heavy rains.
 
And it had rained hard last night.
 
Eadric pulled off his riding gloves, staring down at the swollen river.
 
"Von Haaren will march straight for us," he murmured, half to himself.
 
Bertram, standing beside him, spat into the grass. "Aye. He wants this done. No hiding behind walls, not after the Count put his boot in it."
 
"He’ll come from the east," Oswald added. The spy sat on a fallen column, chewing an apple. "He has foot soldiers, baggage trains. If he wants to move them fast, he’ll need the bridge."
 
Bertram frowned. "Thought we were going after his keep?"
 
"We are," Eadric said. "After we break his army."
 
Bertram sat heavily on a fallen stone, wiping the sweat from his brow. "So we take the bridge?"
 
"No," Eadric said. "We let them have it."
 
Oswald, ever the suspicious one, looked up from where he crouched over a map. "That’s a fine way to get killed, my lord."
 
Eadric shook his head. "If we hold it outright, he’ll see it coming. He’ll dig in, send his men in waves, or worse, starve us out while his crossbows pick us apart." He pointed at the map. "But if we let them take it—get them halfway across, get them trapped between the river and the road—"
 
Bertram let out a slow chuckle. "Then we smash them in the gut."
 
Eadric nodded.
 
 
Chapter VII
 
 
Eadric stood by the dying fire, sharpening his blade. The wet stone hissed against steel, a slow, deliberate scrape that matched the rhythm of his thoughts. He was preparing himself, shaping his mind the way he shaped his sword. A hundred feet away, the men sat in clusters, silent, sharpening blades, tightening straps, whispering prayers. No laughter. No boasting. Not now. The ones who had fought before knew what was coming, and the ones who hadn’t? They were learning the taste of fear.
 
Bertram crouched next to the fire, chewing on a strip of salt pork. "You think von Haaren’s sleeping well tonight?"
 
Eadric didn’t look up. "Men like him don’t need to."
 
"He should be scared."
 
"He’s too arrogant for that. He thinks he’s already won."
 
Bertram snorted, shaking his head. "That’s the best thing about nobles. Give 'em a name, a fancy crest, and they think it means something when the blades start flying."
 
Eadric said nothing. He looked up at the night sky. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, of crushed grass and sweat and old campfire smoke. A storm had passed the day before, leaving the ground soft, the river swollen. That would work in their favor.
 
 
At dawn, they moved.
 
Two hundred riders, moving through the fog like wolves through the trees. No banners. No fanfare. The bridge at Wend’s Crossing was old, worn smooth by decades of trade carts and foot traffic. Stone arches, timber beams, narrow enough to be a choke point.
 
Von Haaren would have to cross here. And that meant Eadric could bleed him here.
 
The ground on either side of the bridge was wet, treacherous. The rains had turned the fields into a bog, sucking at boots and hooves alike. That meant von Haaren’s men would stay on the road, keep to the bridge. Eadric had spent the last two days preparing this battlefield.
 
The plan was simple. Let von Haaren cross, make him think he had the advantage, and then close the noose.
 
 
 
The first distant glint of steel caught the morning light.
 
Then came the sound.
 
The heavy thump-thump-thump of marching boots. The creak of wagon wheels. The snorting of horses. Then—through the thinning mist—they appeared.
 
Von Haaren’s army was twice the size of Eadric’s, but it was slow, heavy, burdened by supply wagons and foot soldiers.
 
The first ranks were mercenary pikemen—hard men, scarred and lean, armor mismatched, weapons sharp. Behind them came the crossbows, well-ordered, disciplined. Then the knights on horseback, banners fluttering in the morning air.
 
And at the center, riding in his polished mail, helm crested with a golden hawk, was von Haaren himself. Eadric watched from the treeline, unseen. He let them come.
 
Let them cross.
 
The first column of men marched onto the bridge. Then the second. The third. Cart horses dragged wagons over the stones.And then, just as the vanguard reached the far side—
 
Eadric gave the signal.
 
 
A single arrow hissed through the air.
 
It struck the lead officer, a knight in polished steel. The shaft punched through his throat, and he toppled from the saddle, his mouth opening in a soundless scream.
 
For half a second, nothing happened.
 
Then—chaos.
 
A second volley of arrows whipped into the enemy ranks. Men fell, clutching at their throats, their eyes wide with surprise. Horses screamed. Eadric spurred Sigurd forward, his sword flashing in the dawn light.
 
The charge hit like a thunderclap.
 
Lances shattered against shields, horses slammed into men, swords bit into flesh. The bridge became a killing ground, the enemy caught between two forces, those who had crossed, and those still pushing forward. The moment they tried to turn back—the bridge was set alight.
 
The flames roared high, smoke choking the air. The men on the bridge were trapped. Some tried to jump, landing in the river below, dragged down by the weight of their own mail. Others pressed forward, forced into the mud pits Eadric’s men had dug.
 
And there—in the chaos—Eadric found von Haaren.
 
The two men locked eyes across the field. Von Haaren was bloodied, but unbowed. His horse was foaming at the mouth, nostrils flared. His sword was red with fresh kills.
 
Eadric spurred forward. Von Haaren came to meet him.
 
Their blades clashed—steel on steel. Eadric was stronger. He fought like a soldier, like a man who had killed for every inch of ground he’d ever owned. Von Haaren fought like a nobleman. Skilled. Precise. But too clean.
 
Eadric’s first blow took him off balance.
 
His second sent von Haaren’s sword flying from his grip.
 
His third—the killing blow—was stopped.
 
Not by von Haaren. By one of his knights, throwing himself into the path of the blade.
 
Von Haaren turned his horse, spurring away. Eadric cursed, wiping blood from his brow.
 
Von Haaren ran for his castle.
 
Eadric followed.
 
By nightfall, they were outside Waldenberg Keep. The fortress was old, strong, built of black stone, high walls and thick gates. A place that could hold for weeks, maybe months.
 
Eadric didn’t have weeks. He had wounded men, exhausted horses, and a city that wouldn’t wait forever to see how this ended.
 
Bertram stood beside him, wiping his sword clean. "So. Siege?"
 
Eadric exhaled. "Siege."
 
 
Chapter VIII
 
A siege is a slow, ugly thing.
 
It’s not the clash of knights in gleaming armor, nor the swift, clean kill of a duel in the lists. It’s a strangling. A slow crushing of will and body alike, where men fight the cold as much as they fight hunger, where rot sets into boots and minds alike. It’s men turning into animals, or worse.
 
Eadric knew this well. He stood atop a low hill, staring down at Waldenberg Keep. The last holdout of Lord Theobald von Haaren, the man who had played at war but had never bled for it.
 
The keep was old and strong, black stone cut from the cliffs, walls thick and high, built before men had learned the art of destruction. There were no crumbling bastions, no weak palisades—no easy way in.
 
Von Haaren had pulled his broken army inside, locking the gates behind him. By now, they’d be hungry, wounded, angry.
 
But desperate men were dangerous men.
 
"How many inside?" Eadric asked.
 
Oswald crouched over a crude map, scratching his stubbled chin. "A hundred. Maybe more."
 
Bertram grunted. "All well-fed?"
 
"Not for long," Oswald smirked.
 
Eadric exhaled, watching the fires flickering inside the keep. They had supplies, yes. But not enough.
 
That meant there were two ways to take Waldenberg: starve them out, or break the walls.
 
Neither would be clean.
 
 
The first night, screams echoed from the walls.
 
One of von Haaren’s men tried to escape under cover of darkness, swimming the river. Eadric’s archers caught him in the shallows.
 
The second night, more screams.
 
A scouting party rode too close to the gates. The defenders loosed a storm of bolts, one catching a man in the gut, pinning him to his saddle like a nailed rat. His horse dragged him into the mud, legs flailing, throat gurgling red.
 
The men watched him die.
 
Bertram turned to Eadric. "That’s one of ours in that dirt."
 
Eadric nodded. "That’s why we’re going to kill them all."
 
 
 
The first assault came at dawn.
 
Eadric had no trebuchets, no siege towers, but he had men. And men could climb. Ladders. That was the simplest way. The fastest way. The most brutal way.
 
The first wave ran forward, shields raised, ladders hoisted. They barely made it halfway.
 
Crossbow bolts rained down like iron thorns. One man, Gunter, a farmer-turned-soldier, took a bolt through the cheek, staggering back with a wet choking noise. Another caught him in the throat.
 
He hit the ground like a felled ox. The second wave fared no better.
 
Ladders went up. Hot oil poured down.
 
Men screamed as it touched skin, boiling flesh in their own armor. Some tried to claw the burning liquid away, others simply died where they stood.
 
Eadric gritted his teeth. "Again."
 
And so, they climbed again. This time, they reached the top.
 
Oswald led the first men onto the walls, daggers flashing, short swords hacking into the defenders.
 
Eadric followed, blade in hand. The wall-top was a charnel house. A crossbowman fumbled to reload—Eadric slammed his pommel into the man’s face, caving in his nose, knocking teeth from his skull. The man went down, choking on his own blood.
 
Another came at him with an axe, screaming. Eadric caught the blow on his shield, drove his sword up into the bastard’s gut.
 
Hot wetness spilled over his hand.
 
The man fell, thrashing.
 
More men poured over the walls. Steel met flesh. Shields cracked. The stones ran slick with blood.
 
Then—a horn.
 
Von Haaren’s men broke.
 
They fell back to the inner keep, retreating behind the gates, leaving only corpses behind.
 
Eadric had taken the walls.
 
 
The gate was thick oak, reinforced with iron bands. No battering ram would break it.
 
That left one option.
 
Fire.
 
The next morning, they piled the gate with kindling, barrels of pitch, dry hay stolen from the abandoned village. Then—they lit it.
 
The flames roared, licking up the wood like a hungry beast. Smoke billowed into the sky, choking the defenders. Inside, men coughed, panicked.
 
Then—a crack. Then another. Then—the gate came down.
 
Eadric and his men surged forward.
 
If the walls had been bad, the inner keep was a slaughterhouse. Eadric fought through the corridors, cutting down everything in his path.
 
A man rushed him with a spear. He sidestepped, slashed across the thigh. The man collapsed, screaming.
 
Another—a young knight, no older than twenty—came at him, blade high, fearless.
 
Eadric cut his arm off at the elbow. The boy staggered, looking at his own stump in horror, blood pumping in bursts.
 
Eadric ended it with a thrust through the throat.
 
Bertram was a wall of meat and iron, hacking through bodies, his axe biting deep.
 
Oswald fought like a rat in the dark, slipping between men, dagger flashing into eyes, throats, guts.
 
The halls of Waldenberg ran red.
 
Von Haaren was nowhere to be found.
 
Until—a final door.
 
The great hall.
 
They kicked it open.
 
 
And there he was.
 
Von Haaren was pale, breathing hard, his sword still in hand.
 
But his hands were shaking.
 
Eadric stepped forward, bloody and grim.
 
Von Haaren raised his blade.
 
It was over in three strokes.
 
Eadric knocked the sword aside, slammed his pommel into von Haaren’s gut. The noble staggered, gasping.
 
The second blow took his knee.
 
Von Haaren fell.
 
The third, the final stroke, Eadric drove his sword through von Haaren’s chest.
 
Von Haaren gasped, coughed blood, eyes wide with something like disbelief.
 
Then—he was gone.
 
Eadric ripped his blade free.
 
Bertram let out a long breath. "It’s done."
 
Eadric stared at the body.
 
Then at his hands.
 
Red.
 
He turned away.
 
Outside, the fires still burned.
 
By nightfall, Waldenberg Keep was nothing but ruin.
 
The banners of House von Haaren lay trampled in the blood-soaked dirt.
 
The men drank, laughed, roared in victory.
 
Eadric watched the flames.
 
Bertram came up beside him. "So. What now?"
 
Eadric didn’t answer.
 
Chapter IX
 
A dead nobleman is never just a dead nobleman.
 
Eadric had fought a dozen battles, watched hundreds of men bleed out in the mud, burned Waldenberg Keep to the ground, and still, the hardest fight was yet to come.
 
Not with a sword.
 
But with words.
 
Lord Theobald von Haaren was no more—his skull caved in, his body dumped onto the burning rubble of his own keep. Justice, vengeance, whatever the hell men wanted to call it.
 
But justice meant nothing to the men who ruled Marcelia-Roma. To the Count of Povazna. To the Duke of Moravona.
 
And now, Eadric had to ride to them and explain himself.
 
He wiped his sword clean one last time, tucked it back into its sheath, and sighed.
 
Killing was easy.
 
Politics was a nightmare.
 
The road to Povazna was long, and they rode it with the ghosts of the dead at their backs.
 
They were fewer now. Much fewer.
 
When Eadric had first ridden out from Eichenfeld, he had two hundred riders, hard men, proud men, men ready to kill.
 
Now, he had seventy-four.
 
The rest? Buried in the fields of Wend’s Crossing. Hanging from the walls of Waldenberg Keep. Rotting in the river, their armor turned to rust.
 
They rode slow, horses tired, half-lame from the siege. The road to Povazna wound through deep forest and rolling hills, past villages that once paid tithes to von Haaren. Now, those villages were empty. The peasants had seen the banners from afar and vanished into the woods.
 
The great keep of Povazna loomed over the city like a black fist, perched high above the river, its towers narrow and cruel, its walls stained with the memories of a thousand sieges.
 
Inside, it was no warmer.
 
The Duke of Moravona, Hubert Galopan, sat upon a high-backed chair of dark oak, his face as sharp as a whetted dagger, his fingers idly tapping the armrest.
 
He was a lean man, grey-haired, his mouth a permanent line of disappointment.
 
And next to him, seated on a lower bench, was Count Wilbert Povazna, the very man who had told Eadric to settle things with von Haaren himself.
 
Now, he looked displeased.
 
Eadric stood before them, armor still dented, blood still dried in the cracks of his gauntlets.
 
"I hear," the Duke began, voice smooth as silk, "that von Haaren is dead."
 
Eadric did not flinch. "Aye."
 
"His castle is burned. His line is ended."
 
"Aye."
 
The Duke studied him for a long moment. "And you expect me to thank you?"
 
Bertram shifted beside him, his usual smirk conspicuously absent.
 
"No, my lord," Eadric said. "I expect you to understand why it was done."
 
The silence stretched.
 
Hubert Galopan leaned forward slightly. "Did I give you leave to execute one of my vassals?"
 
Eadric met his gaze. "Did you give him leave to raid my land? To burn my fields? To kill my people?"
 
The Duke exhaled through his nose. A slow, measured breath.
 
"You are a knight," he murmured. "Not a baron. Not a count. You hold Eichenfeld by my grace."
 
Eadric said nothing. This was the game. The Duke wanted an excuse to punish him.
 
Count Wilbert spoke next, his voice silkier, more dangerous.
 
"If I let every knight in Marcelia solve their own feuds by fire and sword," he said, "we’d have nothing but ash and corpses."
 
Eadric smiled thinly. "Some would say that is already what we have."
 
A flicker of amusement, quickly gone.
 
Hubert Galopan tapped his fingers again, staring at Eadric like a man weighing a piece of rotten meat.
 
Finally, he spoke.
 
"Theobald von Haaren was an arrogant fool," the Duke said. "A petty lord who thought himself untouchable." His gaze sharpened. "But you made him a martyr."
 
Eadric’s jaw clenched. "He was a snake."
 
"A dead snake," the Duke said. "And now his allies are whispering in dark corners, writing letters, sharpening their knives."
 
A pause.
 
"And I must ask myself," the Duke murmured, "what to do with the man who started all of this."
 
The chamber was silent.
 
Count Wilbert leaned forward. "There will be a price."
 
The Duke nodded. "A tax. A levy. Fifty barrels of grain and thirty warhorses, all from Eichenfeld’s stock."
 
Eadric’s jaw tightened. A wound that would take years to heal.
 
But not one that would kill him.
 
He gave a slow nod.
 
"Then we are agreed," the Duke said.
 
The judgment was given.
 
Eadric turned and walked away.
 
The road back to Eichenfeld was longer than the ride to Povazna.
 
Longer because they rode slower. Longer because they carried less men than before.
 
The seventy-four who had ridden into the city had become sixty-two.
 
A fever had taken some. Infection took others.
 
The weight of the past weeks hung on every saddle.
 
Eadric rode at the head, silent, thoughtful. Bertram rode beside him, grim as ever.
 
Oswald rode behind them, flipping a coin between his fingers. The countryside was bare. Burned. Empty.
 
Eadric saw the ruins of old farms, the chimneys of houses with no roofs, only blackened beams.
 
Chapter XI
 
 
Bertram, riding beside Eadric, scratched at his beard, wincing as they passed a carcass-swollen ditch.
 
“I ever tell you about the time I wrestled a boar?”
 
Eadric smirked, watching a crow peck at something pink and wet in the dirt. “Once, maybe twice. If you count the times you were drunk.”
 
Bertram snorted. “Drunk makes it a better story.”
 
Silence stretched.
 
Then—Eadric chuckled.
 
“Isolde says you told her something when you were drunk.”
 
Bertram glanced over. “Yeah? That could mean a lot of things.”
 
Eadric gave him a sideways look. “About braiding a horse’s mane for luck.”
 
Bertram blinked, then groaned, rubbing his temple.
 
“Shit,” he muttered.
 
“You told her it made the horse faster,” Eadric said.
 
Bertram grumbled into his beard. “You ever seen a man try to explain to a six-year-old why something ain’t true after already saying it was?”
 
“She’ll be disappointed.”
 
Bertram scratched his head. “Tell her it only works on special horses. Like the one she’s gonna get when she’s older.”
 
Eadric smirked. “She’ll see right through that.”
 
“Well,” Bertram grumbled, shifting in his saddle, “then I’ll just have to teach her how to wrestle a boar instead.”
 
Eadric shook his head, amused.
 
Then—
 
A horn.
 
It came sharp and sudden, cutting through the damp air. The horses froze. Eadric’s grip tightened on Sigurd's reins.
 
Then, the world shattered. Arrows whistled from the treeline.
 
The first took a rider through the neck, dropping him like a sack of meal. The second buried itself deep in a man’s eye, sending him toppling from the saddle, screaming.
 
 
The trees vomited steel and flesh. Men. Riders, mercenaries, blood-stained and silent, faces masked in soot, rushing from the woods with blades drawn, axes raised.
 
Eadric bellowed the order to form up—
 
Too late.
 
A lance slammed through a rider’s ribs, lifting him from the saddle, his legs kicking like a gutted deer. Another was hauled from his horse, screaming as knives hacked into his neck and armpits, his blood splashing hot against the mud.
 
The enemy was everywhere. A sword slashed across a warhorse’s flank, sending it rearing, dumping its rider. He hit the ground, rolled, came up missing half his jaw.
 
Eadric drew his blade. The man coming for him was big, broad-shouldered, axe in hand.
 
Eadric ducked the first swing.
 
The second caught his pauldron, biting deep. Eadric drove his sword through the man’s gut.
 
The bastard choked, hands scrabbling weakly at his own guts.
 
Then, Eadric turned, and something slammed into him.
 
A horse. Another rider, barreling through the chaos, trampling everything beneath him.
 
The impact ripped Eadric from his saddle.
 
He hit the dirt hard, pain shooting through his ribs like a broken spear haft.
 
Before he could rise—hooves. A warhorse thundered over him.
 
Pain blossomed up his side, crushing his ribs, stealing his breath.
 
His ears rang.
 
His vision blurred.
 
And still, the battle raged.
 
A man was screaming. A raw, awful sound.
 
Eadric blinked through the haze.
 
Bertram.
 
A blade burst from his chest.
 
He wheezed. Gurgled.
 
The blade was yanked free, and he collapsed like a butchered ox.
 
Eadric tried to move.
 
Someone grabbed his arm.
 
Oswald.
 
Face white as death, blood leaking from a wound in his side.
 
Then—a knife across the throat.
 
Blood sprayed Eadric’s face, hot and wet.
 
Oswald fell.
 
Eadric roared.
 
Something struck him across the head.
 
The world turned to black.
 
 
 
He woke to silence.
 
A wet, sticky silence.
 
And the stench of the dead.
 
Eadric moved, barely.
 
Pain screamed through his body.
 
His armor was dented, cracked.
 
His ribs felt like broken glass inside his chest.
 
He rolled onto his side.
 
Bodies.
 
So many bodies.
 
His men lay in the mud, cut to pieces, their armor hacked open, their weapons shattered.
 
Eadric pushed himself onto his hands and knees.
 
His head swam. His ears rang. His vision swam in red.
 
He reached for a sword—any sword.
 
His hand closed around a hilt.
 
He forced himself to stand.
 
A horse snorted nearby.
 
An enemy rode through the wreckage, searching for survivors.
 
Eadric lifted his sword.
 
The rider turned.
 
Eadric drove the blade through his back, ripping it free in a spray of blood.
 
The man slumped from the saddle.
 
Eadric kept walking.
 
Pain followed him, gnawed at him, pulled at every nerve in his body.
 
He kept walking.
 
Toward Eichenfeld.
 
Toward home.
 
 
Chapter XI
 
Eadric walked for two days.
 
He was bleeding, broken, half-dead from the ambush. His ribs screamed with every breath, his skin burned with fever.
 
But none of it mattered.
 
Because Eichenfeld was burning.
 
He saw the smoke before he saw the village. Thick, black columns curling high into the sky, blotting out the pale morning light. His steps quickened. His vision blurred with exhaustion, but he did not stop.
 
The village was gone. Not just burned. Ruined.
 
Houses lay gutted, their thatched roofs caved in, blackened beams still smoldering. The streets were slick with blood, bodies strewn like broken dolls, limbs bent at wrong angles.
 
Men.
 
Women.
 
Children.
 
A woman’s corpse lay in the road, skirts torn, face purple with bruises, throat cut ear to ear. A child clutched at her, unmoving, burned black.
 
Eadric forced himself to look. He owed them that much.
 
Then—he saw them. The garrison. What was left of it. They hung from the trees.
 
Rope biting into raw necks, bodies swaying gently in the wind, their faces purple, tongues black. A man he had known for years, a veteran of the border skirmishes, eyes bloated, fingers curled in rigor.
 
Another, Bertram’s second, missing his hands, blood dried to his chest. Eadric’s stomach twisted.
 
His fists tightened on the hilt of his stolen sword. There were still looters.
 
Scavengers, picking through the dead, ripping rings from fingers, digging through burnt homes. He killed the first one before the bastard even knew he was there.
 
Steel bit deep into the looter’s neck, severing flesh, grinding against bone. The second tried to run.
 
Eadric’s blade caught him in the spine, dropping him like a felled ox. The third—a weasel-faced man with a sack of stolen bread—raised his hands.
 
Eadric cut his throat anyway. He left them where they fell.
 
And then he ran.
 
He ran to the keep.
 
The gates of Eichenfeld Keep were open.
 
That was wrong. They were never open.
 
His boots squelched through blood-soaked dirt as he staggered through the archway.
 
The courtyard was a graveyard.
 
Bodies lay slumped against the walls, blood splattered across the stone.
 
The doors to the great hall had been battered in.
 
Eadric pushed inside.
 
And found nothing.
 
No bodies.
 
No sign of Annaliese.
 
No sign of his children.
 
Just ruin.
 
Chairs broken. Tapestries ripped down, torn to shreds. A stale, sour stink of piss and spilled ale where the invaders had feasted in the wreckage.
 
The hearth was cold. The place felt dead.
 
Then—a sound.
 
A whimper.
 
He turned sharply, sword already raised.
 
A boy.
 
A stablehand. No older than twelve. Blood on his tunic, shaking. Eadric grabbed him, hands tight on his shoulders.
 
“Where are they?” he rasped. His throat was raw, his voice barely human.
 
The boy’s eyes were wide, wild. "The stables," he whispered. "She took them—she took them there to hide."
 
The stables. Eadric’s chest went tight.
 
And then—
 
He ran.
 
He smelled it before he saw it.
 
Smoke.
 
The charred, choking stink of burned wood, of scorched flesh.
 
The stables were gone.
 
Only blackened beams remained, the roof collapsed inward, ashes still hot, the air thick with the stench of death.
 
He stepped forward on shaking legs.
 
His boots crunched on cinders.
 
Something else.
 
Bone.
 
No.
 
No. No. No.
 
His breath came ragged.
 
He moved to the doorway, to the ruined frame of what had once been the entrance.
 
And he saw them.
 
Annaliese had barred the doors.
 
The wood had held.
 
But fire doesn’t need doors.
 
Her body was curled over the children.
 
As if she had tried to shield them.
 
Her dress was burned black, skin cracked and split, her arms wrapped tight around what remained of Matthias and Isolde.
 
There was nothing left of their faces.
 
Just charred bone.
 
The fire had taken everything.
 
Eadric fell to his knees.
 
His sword slipped from his grip, clattering onto the burnt wood.
 
He stared.
 
And stared.
 
And something inside him broke.
 
The sound that came from his throat was not a scream, not a sob, but something else.
 
Something raw.
 
Something empty.
 
He did not know how long he knelt there.
 
Time meant nothing.
 
The world had ended.
 
Nothing mattered.
 
Nothing would ever matter again.