"Release."
The sky darkened. Twenty-five Trojan bows sang in a single, terrifying chord—a sharp, metallic thrum that vibrated in the very stone of the battlements.
The first volley rose in a perfect, lethal arc. The enemy barely had time to register the range, their eyes tracking the black streaks against the clouds, before the arrows descended. They did not scatter wildly; they struck with surgical precision. Spearmen first. Black-armored spearmen fell where they stood, arrows punching through visor slits, throats, and exposed joints.
Before the first bodies even hit the ground, the second staggered volley launched. Five-man rotation. Constant pressure. No pause. No mercy. The enemy line wavered, the sound of shouting men rising like a foul mist. "Shields up!" someone screamed, but it was too late. A third wave fell. The distance they had thought was safe had become a killing field.
Then the Knights of Camelot began their work. Fireballs streaked outward, slamming into clustered shield formations with the force of falling stars. Explosions tore men from their feet, sending scorched metal flying. Stone spikes erupted from the ground beneath advancing units, impaling through greaves and thighs. Pressurized spheres of water slammed into tightly packed soldiers, crushing ribs with hydraulic force.
The battlefield ignited and became filled with smoke, flames and screams.
The enemy lord roared from the rear, his voice a ragged snarl of desperation. "Advance! Advance!"
And they did. They charged. Five hundred became a black tide surging toward the north wall. Ladders lifted. Spearmen lowered shafts. The ground shook beneath the thunder of armored boots.
Aleric watched from the battlements, his hand white-knuckled on his spear. "Hold," he ordered calmly. The archers did not panic. They adjusted their aim, their targets closer now, their kills faster. Arrows began punching through eye slits at near point-blank range.
Still, the enemy reached the wall. Ladders slammed into stone. Hooks bit into the parapets. Men began climbing. Athena stepped forward, her eyes like flint. "Destroy the ladders," she commanded.
The knights hurled fire downward. Explosions detonated mid-ladder, sending burning bodies crashing back into those below. Stone magic shattered climbing hands. Men fell screaming. But some reached the top. The first black-armored soldier vaulted over the parapet—and met a knight's blade.
Steel rang. Sparks flew. The enemy fought like men with nothing to lose. They pushed through flame, through falling comrades, through arrows embedded in their shoulders. One knight lost his footing as three attackers rushed him simultaneously. A sword tore through the gap beneath his arm. He fell with a heavy, hollow clang. The second knight beside him roared and split one attacker from collarbone to waist. Blood sprayed across the battlements.
The war was no longer distant. It became up close and personal.
+++++++
At the gate, the first ram struck. Boom. Iron reinforcements groaned. Again. Boom.
Inside the courtyard, Fenrir's eyes narrowed. "Now," Athena said quietly.
Fenrir vanished from the wall. He leapt from the south side, landing beyond enemy sight with a crack that fractured the earth. Then he ran—silent, fast, cold, trailing behind him like a winter storm. Behind the enemy formation, their remaining archers continued firing upward until frost crept across their boots.
One turned. Too late. Fenrir hit them like an avalanche. Claws tore through armor as if it were cloth. Jaws closed around a man's torso. The scream cut short. Ice spread instantly across weapons and limbs. Panic erupted in the rear ranks. "Wolf! Wolf behind us!"
The enemy formation broke. And that was the moment the gate gave way. The iron hinges snapped under the third ram strike. The gate burst inward. The ten knights and hoplites braced, their shield wall locked. The black tide surged through—and collided with legend.
Steel exploded against steel. The first rank of invaders slammed into immovable shields. The second rank tried to push through. Camelot blades stabbed between shield gaps with brutal precision. Men fell, but more poured in. From above, archers pivoted and began firing into the breach. Not a single arrow wasted.
Then, the Companion Cavalry moved. They did not wait for panic to spread. They charged. Lances lowered. The courtyard thundered as twenty-five Macedonian companions crashed into the flank of the breach. The impact shattered the enemy's forward momentum. Bodies were lifted from the ground; armor crumpled under horse mass and spear force. The charge punched straight through the invading column. Blood and dust filled the air.
++++++
Aleric descended from the wall. His chest ached, but he ignored it. He hurried down the wall with his spear in hand and his shield raised.
The assassin lord finally entered the courtyard. He cut down one of the cavalry mounts with terrifying efficiency. Not a mere commander—a warrior. A veteran. His armor was darker than the rest, his presence heavier. His eyes found Aleric immediately. "You," the lord growled.
Aleric stepped forward, but Athena moved first. She intercepted the lord's charge in a flash of bronze and steel. Their weapons collided with explosive force, the shockwave knocking nearby soldiers off balance. She moved differently from the others. Every move she made was sharper. Cleaner.
The lord attacked with relentless fury, each strike carrying personal hatred. She parried. Redirected. Countered. Their clash became a center point in the chaos. Around them, the battlefield devolved. Explosions from Camelot spellcasters ignited clusters of enemies. Fenrir tore through retreating archers and began collapsing their formation from the rear. Companion cavalry wheeled and struck again, cutting escape routes. Trojan arrows continued falling from above into exposed backs.
Men screamed. Limbs were severed. Armor split open. Mud turned red. And still the enemy fought, driven by their lord, by rage, by coin. But they were no longer fighting mercenaries. They were fighting veterans who have carved their feats into history.
Athena drove her spear forward. The lord barely twisted aside. His blade carved across her shield rim, sparks flying inches from her face. He was strong. Very strong.
"You think you can consolidate your power hear?!" he snarled.
She answered by slamming her shield into his chest and forcing him back three steps. "You brought five hundred men to our door thinking we were easy prey," she replied coldly. "Bad move."
Behind him, his forces were collapsing. Fenrir's frost reached the breach. Ice locked men in place. Companion lances impaled and immobilized soldiers. Spell fire erupted in controlled bursts. The courtyard became a furnace and a tundra simultaneously.
Aleric watched and evaluated. Then stepped forward to join the melee. His spear thrust was not as fluid as before; the nine days of forced rest showed. But his mind was sharper than ever. He adjusted, used formation gaps, and struck where knights created openings. He was not the strongest presence on the field, but he was the axis.
The lord saw the tide turning. His son's death echoed in his mind. Rage blinded him. He lunged recklessly at Athena—and overextended. She pivoted. Her spear slipped past his guard. Steel punched through armor at the seam beneath his arm. The blade drove deep.
The lord staggered, shock in his eyes. The battlefield noise dimmed around him. His men saw it—their leader faltering. Fenrir's howl echoed from the rear. The Companion Cavalry began their third charge. And whatever doubt had followed Aleric's name died with that charge.
The enemy line broke and the courtyard became an execution ground. Within minutes, the black tide was no more. Smoke drifted upward. The screams faded. Only crackling fire and heavy breathing remained. Five hundred had marched. A fraction still stood. And they were not the invaders. They were Aleric's.
Athena withdrew her spear from the fallen lord. Silence settled. War had come. War had broken out. And the estate still stood.
The Aftermath
The last screams faded into smoke. Steel slipped from lifeless fingers. The courtyard, once clean and orderly, had become a graveyard. Blackened plate armor lay twisted and broken across churned earth.
Then—a shadow passed overhead. Massive. Ancient. Fafnir descended. His wings beat once, scattering ash and dust outward as he landed beyond the walls with earth-shaking force. He had finished his lesson in the sky. Now he surveyed the one on the ground.
The dragon's golden eyes moved slowly across the carnage. Knights of Camelot stood straight but bloodied. The Trojan archers maintained their positions on top of the walls. The Companion cavalry regrouped, horses snorting but steady. Fenrir padded back through the shattered gate, frost trailing behind him, crimson staining his maw.
Fafnir's deep rumble echoed approvingly. "Well," he said, smoke curling from his nostrils. "I leave for a meal, and you clean house without me."
A few knights stiffened. Others simply held a position. Myth had become routine in a single afternoon.
+++++++
The distant rumble of wheels approached. Baron Edrin's carriage emerged through the thinning haze. The moment the Baron stepped down, he stopped. He did not speak. He could not.
Before him lay devastation. Five hundred had marched. Now, a sea of corpses surrounded the manor. Black armor. Broken shields. Scorched earth. Frozen patches where men had died, locked in ice. He recognized the armor pattern immediately. They were not from the city guard. The armor and the sea of bodies belongs to a private military force.
His gaze moved slowly. Then, it found the body at the center of the courtyard. The enemy lord. Even in death, his presence was unmistakable. Edrin stepped forward. Slowly. He stared down at the corpse. Recognition settled heavily. "I know you," he whispered.
The man had influence, his connections and the power he wielded outside official channels was vast. And now he lay dead on Aleric's soil. Edrin lifted his eyes. He truly took in the devastation for the first time. This did not look like a desperate defense or a case of lucky survival. This was systematic destruction. He felt something cold crawl up his spine.
'So that is what they are capable of,' he thought to himself.
++++++
Across the courtyard, Aleric stood amid the aftermath. His armor bore fresh cuts. His spear tip still dripped. His chest ached more sharply now but he ignored it.
"Medic," he called. One of the disciples of Asclepius approached immediately. "Report."
Aleric braced himself. He had expected losses. Heavy ones. They had faced five hundred men after all. Even legends bleed.
The medic spoke clearly. "Three knights dead." Aleric blinked. "Seven wounded. Two are critical but stable. No archer fatalities but four were injured. One mount was lost and two riders were wounded."
Aleric's eyes narrowed slightly. "And Fenrir?"
The frost wolf approached silently behind him. "Unharmed."
"And Fafnir?"
The dragon snorted smoke. "I was dining."
Aleric exhaled slowly. Three dead against five hundred. Even accounting for fortifications, even accounting for quality of the troops—it was staggering. He closed his eyes briefly. In relief but also in calculations. This was what his summoned soldiers could do when deployed correctly.
A subtle shift ran through him. His breath steadied. The ache in his chest dulled slightly. His thoughts sharpened as if battle had carved something cleaner inside him. Growth did not announce itself. It simply arrived.
Aleric opened his eyes. Across the courtyard, Baron Edrin watched him. Not as a potential ally now, but as a rising force. Edrin was a man who commanded a dragon and who broke a private army in a single afternoon.
The silence between them stretched. Smoke drifted upward in slow spirals. Aleric stepped toward the Baron. Calm. Measured. Untouched by panic.
"Baron Edrin," he said evenly. "We should talk."
++++++
Baron Edrin did not hesitate. "We should," he said immediately. There was no arrogance left in his tone. No political maneuvering. Only urgency.
Aleric inclined his head slightly. "Good."
But before they moved, he turned back toward the courtyard. The work was not finished. "Knights," he called evenly. Thirty Camelot warriors straightened at once. "Strip the fallen of usable armor and weapons. Inventory everything. Separate by condition. Repairable pieces to one side. Intact sets catalogued."
This was not about looting the dead. These armor and weapons were resources now.
Aleric continued. "As for the bodies, dig a trench at least eight to nine feet deep. Dig it on the eastern edge of the forest. I want no shallow graves."
Acknowledgment rippled through the ranks. He was not careless. He would not allow rot, disease, or half-measures. "Once complete," he added calmly, "place them inside." His eyes shifted briefly toward Fafnir. "And when all are laid to rest…"
The dragon's lip curled slightly. "I will reduce them to ash."
There would be no martyr graves. No recoverable corpses. No symbols. Only smoke.
The estate shifted into organized recovery. Companion cavalry dismounted and assisted in perimeter watch. Medics moved among the wounded with efficient precision. Fenrir lay near the shattered gate, frost stabilizing overheated stone and smoldering wood.
It looked less like an aftermath now—and more like a transition.
+++++++
Baron Edrin watched all of it. He was not shocked or horrified by the deaths, he was watching how efficient Aleric's men were.
Aleric turned to Athena briefly. "Can you take over?"
She blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. "Yes."
But she had not been focused on logistics. Not truly. While the knights inventoried armor and trenches were carved into the earth, her mind replayed something else: Aleric in combat.
At first, she had watched him with a strategist's concern. He had been confined nine days to a bed, where he was allowed very limited movement,and no spear drills. She had seen it in his stance when he first descended into the courtyard. A slight hesitation. A pivot that was a bit slower than usual.
But then—something shifted. The more he fought, the sharper he became. His footwork corrected itself mid-exchange. His timing became refined. His thrusts grew cleaner, his shield placements tighter. He adapted rapidly, as if the battle itself were a whetstone honing his soul.
By the time the Companion Cavalry made their second charge, he had already surpassed the stiffness she feared. He moved like the man she had traveled beside before the injury—no, sharper even.
And she had felt it. Not merely admiration, and not merely pride, but confirmation. She had chosen to stand beside him. Not behind. Not above. Beside. And watching him command veterans, adapt under pressure, and rise stronger through conflict—it pleased her deeply. More than she allowed her expression to show.
She exhaled slowly, the sound lost in the wind. "Yes," she murmured to herself. "I chose correctly."
Then her focus snapped back to the present, her voice cutting through the air. "Rotate watch shifts," she ordered crisply. "No one assumes this was the last move."
The soldiers obeyed instantly. Her composure had returned fully, but something warmer now sat beneath it.
+++++++
At the far edge of the courtyard, the trench was nearly complete.
Bodies were moved without mockery or ceremony. Black armor too broken to be repaired clattered as corpses were lowered in. When the last fell, Fafnir approached. He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding like a bellows, and then exhaled a torrent of dragonfire into the earth.
Flame roared downward. The trench became a furnace. Smoke spiraled high into the sky, a black pillar visible across all of High Valmere. Within minutes, nothing remained but blackened ash and heat-hardened soil.
+++
Inside the manor, Aleric and Baron Edrin entered a quiet chamber. The heavy oak door closed, muffling the sounds of the recovery outside.
Outside, myth guarded the walls. Inside, politics would begin and neither man underestimated what this conversation would mean. After today, Aleric would no longer be a promising unknown. He was now a force.
And forces have a way of reshaping cities.