Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The day was quiet — far too quiet for a land that for years had smelled of blood.
Lord Gregoryan Frostborne led his army through the dense northern forests, marching forward with a cold gaze and a straight back. His knights moved without words, trained for swift death, their armor clinking softly as they drew closer to their goal.
Before them, behind the stone walls, rose Virellion — the capital of Serpentis.
Half of the army remained in the forests with the polar bear, while the other half advanced.
The attack began without warning.
The archers on the walls fell before they understood what was happening. One by one, dark figures collapsed downward, struck by precise arrows. Within a few heartbeats, the walls fell silent.
Immediately after, Gregoryan's men struck the gates, and he advanced with them.
Heavy hammers and logs slammed against the wood, and from within the city a тревожен bell rang out. At the moment the gates began to give way, the lord of Serpentis gave the order:
"— Open them!"
The gates opened — and that was a mistake.
Arrows from Skeldor flew, knights charged forward, but from the shadows emerged an enormous army of Serpentis. Their numbers were terrifying.
The lord of Skeldor raised his voice, sharp and feigned with fear:
"— RUN! THERE ARE TOO MANY! RETREAT TO THE FOREST!"
The Skeldorians turned in chaos, throwing away weapons, crashing into one another, fleeing toward the forest like a shattered army — exactly as planned.
"— Destroy them!" — ordered the lord of Serpentis.
Alaric stepped forward.
"— This is a trap. Wait. They cannot enter the city—"
The lord turned toward him in rage.
"— You are not the one who decides. Obey the order."
The knights moved out. The lord remained in the castle — he believed it was not his place in a "small battle."
In the forest, the pursuit turned into slaughter.
The army of Serpentis entered a narrow space — and then death poured in from all sides. Archers from afar. Knights from up close. Men fell before they understood where the blow came from.
Alaric stood among them.
"— Hold the formation!"
"— Raise the shields!" — he shouted
They listened. They followed him. They accepted him as the defender of the crown.
Arrows flew toward him one after another. Enemy archers fell like ripe fruit. When a knight drew close — the short sword ended everything in an instant. When there was no time — a knife flew, and he took it back immediately.
He did not fight wildly. He fought smartly.
If he fell, everyone behind him would fall.
He knew that. And that was why he could not retreat.
And then — the ground trembled.
Before him appeared Gregoryan Frostborne, with his enormous white polar bear, armored and enraged. Men fell beneath the beast's claws, and in Alaric's mind flashed an image of Ragnar, fighting a polar bear with bare hands.
Without hesitation, Alaric charged forward.
The spear pierced the bear's back. It let out a cry that tore through the forest. Gregoryan leapt back, avoiding death by a hair. The beast fell.
— The white bear roared, wounded and bleeding.
Gregoryan turned to his men and shouted with fury and rage in his eyes:
"— Take the bear! Retreat! NOW!"
"— But, my lord—"
"— I WILL STAY!" — his voice thundered. — "I will hold the battle!"
The knights hesitated, but the order was clear.
One by one they disappeared among the trees, carrying the wounded bear with them, while he remained alone — standing tall, surrounded by enemies.
Then he stood before Alaric, with a smile and a sharp gaze.
"— This isn't your first time fighting a bear."
"— And who are you?" — Alaric asked.
"— Gregoryan Frostborne. Son of the king of Skeldor. They call me the White Beast.
And you? The lord of Serpentis?"
"— No. I am only a knight.
Alaric Thornewood. The last survivor of the ash city Ravenrock. The only prisoner who escaped from your father's dungeon."
Gregoryan fell silent. He knew that name. Everyone knew it.
"— I am impressed," — he finally said. — "Fight me."
Rage collided with the thirst for battle.
Arrows flew — Gregoryan dodged them. Alaric drew a short sword. Spear and steel clashed. A fight that would be told for years.
The knights of Serpentis moved forward, thirsty for blood.
"— Now is the moment!" — one shouted. — "Kill him!"
Alaric raised his sword and stepped in front of them.
"— STOP!"
All froze.
"— They are already defeated," — he said coldly. — "This is not a slaughter."
He looked directly at the lord of Skeldor.
"— This battle will end fairly."
"— You and I."
"— One on one."
No one dared oppose him.
When an archer tried to break the duel, an arrow struck Gregoryan in the stomach. Alaric immediately threw a knife — the archer fell dead.
"— This is not the end," — Gregoryan said, retreating.
He had never retreated from battle before.
But this man… was not like the others.
Skeldor withdrew. Serpentis survived.
The people did not speak loudly.
Their voices were quiet, as if they feared that if they spoke too loudly, the truth would vanish.
"— Did you see…?"
"— He was everywhere…"
"— Without him, we would have fallen…"
Their eyes were filled with disbelief.
"— He is not just a knight…"
"— He kept us alive…"
Someone whispered, almost in reverence:
"— He is the shield of the kingdom."
The whisper passed from mouth to mouth, until it became a truth no one dared deny.
The name of Alaric spread across the kingdom — as a hero. As a defender. As the man who stopped the White Beast.
While Gregoryan returned home defeated, wounded and furious, with an injured bear and a shattered army — carrying within him a thirst for another battle with Alaric that would not fade.
Far from the battle, the forest was alive.
Rhydan Ashvale ran as his lungs burned. Behind him — growling. Deep. Hungry.
Three wolves.
They did not stop.
He slipped, fell, his swords flew from his hands and vanished into the leaves.
The first wolf leapt.
Rhydan met it with his hands. Its teeth sank into his flesh, but he grabbed its jaw and — bit down. Deep. The throat gave way. Blood filled his mouth.
He spat the flesh out and stood.
He jumped onto the back of the second wolf. The third tore at his clothes.
Rhydan screamed — he began choking the wolf. The wolf stopped breathing and fell dead.
One remained.
They stared at each other.
Eyes into eyes.
The wolf howled.
Then it attacked and he kicked it, leaving the wolf gasping for air. He immediately rushed in and began punching it and smashed its skull, but broke his fingers as well.
Screams from Rhydan echoed through the forest as he set his fingers back in place.
He began to run but it was too late.
A pack.
More than twenty shadows emerged from the forest.
Rhydan grabbed his swords, his hands trembling, fingers broken, blood running down his face.
He fought.
He killed five. Maybe six.
But it was not enough.
Before him — cliffs. Beneath them — the river Serpent Run.
Behind him — death.
Rhydan smiled with a bloody mouth.
If this is the end — it will not be on their teeth.
And he jumped.
His trail was lost.
And the forest fell silent — as if nothing had ever happened.
End of Chapter 21