The night he rose from the earth, the world began to change.
On a frigid night, as dawn approached over the uneven terrain of Thornridge, a young man in his early twenties lay motionless beneath a thin layer of earth. Soil clung to his skin, masking him so completely that he might have been part of the land itself. To the inattentive eye, he was nothing more than another blemish of the plain.
Tonight was meant to be nothing more than a routine raid.
A thick veil of mist shrouded the plain. Nothing seemed to exist beyond a few meters of gray haze. Yet sounds of hooves grinding the ground, muffled murmurs, and a man's harsh rant broke the silence of the night.
He ignored every sound, except the man's:
"Those bastards! I lost so much money in that stupid match—that miserable old fart!"
Something clattered, as if a fist had slammed a tabletop.
Well, it is late; even I am more riled up than usual. Winter nights are no time for miserable affairs like this...curse my life choices... the young man grumbled; grit got into his mouth.
Just what I needed—great. His mood turned sour.
Shifting his focus from the noises, the young man drifted into his thoughts as boredom set in:
Typical Velmorians. Only the biggest empire on the continent would waste blood and coin on a fortress in a godforsaken hole like this. And then there's my home, Shardmarch... a den of lunatics. No matter. It's about time things started moving.
Shaking off his tedious thoughts, he turned his attention back on the shouting man.
"How's he still alive! If he doesn't die soon—I will have to settle..." His voice slowly trailed off as he moved away.
"The only certain thing is your meeting with the reaper tonight," the young man smirked; his lips barely moved.
"AWOOOO!" A distant bellow tore through the night's lull.
The young man's eyes snapped open—cold, predatory light burning within—as his steady breath quickened.
No mistaking that voice.
The young man sprang into motion. In tandem, a dozen more bumps across the plain moved, shedding soil like snakes casting their skin.
By now, the mist had thinned, unveiling the barren expanse of Thornridge.
Ahead of them stood a military fort atop a mound—a motte. It spanned only a few hundred meters, yet its defenses—watchtowers, spiked fences, and fire beacons—belied its modest size.
The young man led his warriors over the motte. They scaled the fence and slipped into the fort. Met by no patrol, they pressed forward, scouring the area for the poor souls stationed there in name only.
By the time the guards registered the intrusion, arrows were already hissing through the air, piercing skulls.
Before the bodies hit the ground, the assailants were already on the move.
Splitting into five teams of three, they dispersed through the fort without a word.
Only the young man moved alone. He slipped into the shadows with the rehearsed cadence of a raid long perfected into habit.
Soon, he came upon two unsuspecting guards, standing back to back, trading idle chatter:
"About time those bastards dragged their asses back," one grumbled.
The other said, "Can't blame 'em. I'd also take my sweet time coming back, even if those matches are so... ugly. Just thinking about it turns my stomach."
"That's the point. Better the newbies learn here than on the actual battlefield."
"Easy for you to say, but—" A wet, piercing sound cut him short.
With their backs to each other, the guard could not grasp the tragic fate that had befallen his comrade—his words breaking off mid-sentence, to be continued in eternity.
"Cat got your tongue, eh, stu..."
Confusion flashed across the guard's face as he began to fall while speaking. His attempt to regain balance proved futile; his torso hit the ground. He strained to lift himself. Then froze. Seconds later, he realized that beneath his chest lay nothing. Nothing but a bloody stump.
His face twisted in revulsion and his mind went numb with dread as he caught a glimpse of a young warrior standing by his severed legs. Gradually, the young warrior's features blurred as his vision dimmed and his eyes fluttered shut.
All that remained before the guard was an impenetrable darkness—the shadow of death.
The young man lingered at the scene of his handiwork. His eyes, cold and detached, drank in the sight of butchery. He breathed in the bloody-metallic air, steeling himself for what was still to come.
"Vice-Cap Corvus, everyone's here," a soft voice called him from behind. He turned and saw a boy standing there, covered in blood.
The young man, Corvus Ashford, scanned the boy and the rest of his band. Once certain that none were wounded, and that the blood staining them was not their own, he shifted his gaze to the bailey below.
Scores of barracks sprawled across the bailey. His gaze settled upon a crowd; the only source of activity and disturbance in the night.
Pointing at the location, Corvus spoke, his voice sharp and controlled, "That's where Cap is. We'll advance from four directions and close in at the end. Cedric, your squad will not engage; wait by the exit and deal with anyone trying to flee. I will take the front. The rest of you pick your angles. And poison the horses. I don't want anyone escaping and blaming Cedric later."
The five squadron leaders answered together: "Yes, sir."
Taking stock of the situation one last time, Corvus said, "Don't waste time. We wouldn't want our only Captain to suffer..." He paused, a faint smirk crossing his face. "... too much."
Corvus brandished his double-bladed glaive and flicked it in a fluid motion, shedding the blood clinging to its edge.
He tilted the blade a few times, letting the moonlight glint across it. Then, without warning, he leapt from the fort's rampart.
The five squadron leaders and over a dozen black silhouettes—streaked in scarlet—trailed after him as if an extension of his shadow, before scattering across the night, leaving behind a quieter place than they had found.
Thus began the assault whose ripples would echo through the ages.