The sun hung low over Eldermere as the Tenebrae brothers crested the final rise toward the guard barracks, its timber walls casting long shadows across the packed-earth training yard. The air carried the crisp bite of early winter—sharp pine resin from the nearby forests mingling with the faint, metallic tang of oiled weapons and the earthy musk of horse sweat from the stables. Boots crunched on frost-dusted gravel, the sound rhythmic and purposeful, while the brothers' breaths puffed in visible clouds, their packs still heavy with the last remnants of home: a few enchanted apples from the family orchard, their skins waxy and red, releasing a tart sweetness when jostled.
The barracks loomed sturdy and familiar: log walls reinforced with iron bands that gleamed dully in the fading light, the thorned-tower banner fluttering atop the central watchpost with a soft snap against the wind. Smoke curled from the chimney of the mess hall, carrying the savory promise of stew—thick with root vegetables and venison, bubbling over a hearth fire that crackled invitingly in the distance.
Captain Ulric Dane stood at the gate, arms crossed over his broad chest, his weathered cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. His face, scarred from old campaigns, broke into a rare, craggy smile as they approached. "Glad to have you boys back," he rumbled, voice like grinding stones, clasping Roland's forearm in a grip like iron. "Wedding go well? You lot look rested—too rested. Time to shake off the ale and cake."
Roland returned the grip, his own callused hand steady. "It did, sir. Clarice and Tyrell are well-matched. But we're ready for whatever's next."
Dane's smile faded into his usual stern mask, eyes sharpening as he gestured them inside the yard. The brothers followed, the gate creaking shut behind them with a heavy thud that echoed off the walls. The yard bustled faintly—men sharpening blades on whetstones with a rhythmic rasp, the clang of a distant hammer on anvil from the armory, the low whinny of horses in their stalls. Dane led them to the command post, a low timber building where maps fluttered on the walls, pinned by daggers, and lanterns cast flickering amber light that danced across inked lines of borders and threats.
"While you were gone, bigger fish started popping up everywhere," Dane said, unrolling a fresh map marked with red ink slashes along the edges. "Time to get your squads together to clear up some of these mischievous problems." He tapped the borders of Eldermere and the jagged icons for the stone quarries—vital pits where granite and limestone were hewn for the growing walled defenses that would safeguard the town's families. "Dog-like creatures known as kobolds. They've infested the fringes—tunneling under the quarries, ambushing workers, setting traps that snap like wolf jaws. We need those stones flowing again; without them, our walls stay half-built, and the wilds creep closer."
The brothers leaned in, the map's parchment crinkling under their fingers, the ink still faintly pungent from recent additions. Dane continued, his tone grim but matter-of-fact. "Get your squads ready. Day after tomorrow, once everyone's accounted for, you're expected to clear out the kobold menaces. You know what's needed of you guys—so be sure to get it done."
Roland nodded sharply. "Understood, sir. We'll handle it."
Dane clapped him on the shoulder, the impact solid and reassuring, then strode away toward the armory, his boots leaving faint imprints in the thin layer of frost on the ground.
The brothers wasted no time. They spread out across the yard, calling names and tallying heads as their troops trickled in—men returning from their two-week leave, faces flushed from family hearths, packs slung over shoulders smelling of home-cooked bread and dried herbs. The air filled with greetings: slaps on backs that thudded like drumbeats, laughter echoing off the walls, the jingle of buckles as gear was adjusted. Roland kept a running count on a slate board, chalk scratching with each mark; Chris and Tom checked weapons, the metallic ring of swords drawn from scabbards and the twang of bowstrings tested. Sam inventoried rations—hard tack biscuits wrapped in oilcloth, jerky strips tough and salty, waterskins sloshing with fresh spring water. Harold and Jeffrey gathered intel from scouts: fresh reports on kobold sightings, the creatures' tracks like small, clawed paw prints in the quarry mud, laced with the acrid scent of their oily hides.
As the squads assembled—rows of men in leather armor that creaked with movement, shields propped against legs, breath steaming in the chill—Roland stepped forward to brief them. The yard fell silent, save for the distant caw of crows circling the treetops and the soft pop of a lantern wick.
"Listen up," Roland commanded, voice carrying like a clarion. "Our targets are kobolds—sneaky little bastards, more rat than dog, but don't underestimate them. They stand about three feet tall, scaly hides like a lizard's but mottled brown and gray for blending into rocks and shadows, rough and pebbled to the touch, with a faint oily sheen that reeks of musk and damp earth. Their heads are canine—long snouts like a terrier's, filled with jagged yellow teeth that snap shut like traps, ears pointed and twitching at every sound, eyes beady and red-rimmed, glowing faintly in the dark like embers. Small horns curl back from their brows, sharp enough to gore if they charge low. They're wiry, not bulky—clawed hands and feet for digging tunnels that collapse underfoot, tails whip-thin and prehensile, used to balance or snatch tools. Cowardly alone, but in packs they're vicious—setting snares of sharpened stakes hidden in pits, flinging darts tipped with foul poisons that burn like fire in the veins, yipping and barking in their guttural tongue to coordinate ambushes. They hoard shiny things—coins, gems, our quarry tools—and breed like rats in their warrens. We hit hard, seal tunnels, burn nests. No mercy—they'll give none."
The men nodded, faces set, the weight of the description sinking in: the imagined scrabble of claws on stone, the wet hiss of their breaths, the sudden snap of a trap in the dark.
By dawn the next day, everyone was accounted for—packs bulging with rations that crunched when shifted, bedrolls rolled tight and smelling of wool and faint lavender from home washes, quivers rattling with fletched arrows. The air buzzed with readiness: the metallic click of buckles fastening, the soft thump of boots stamping to shake off dew, the low murmur of final checks.
Roland raised his fist, black-sun crest gleaming on his shield. With a mighty roar that echoed across the yard like thunder rolling over the hills—"Forward!"—the troops surged out, boots pounding the earth in unison, the ground vibrating under their march as they headed toward the borders and quarries, steel drawn and senses sharp.