The Ashborn Duke sat in his stately office chair, his gaze fixed on the crackling fireplace before him. A swirl of memories engulfed his mind, drawing him back to that fateful night fifteen years ago. The air was heavy with the scent of blood, and the distant echoes of battle still resonated within his soul.
His army, once a formidable force, had been decimated, leaving him to fend for himself in the treacherous shadows of the dense forest. The oppressive darkness closed in around him as he sprinted, the sharp thorns and gnarled roots of ancient trees tearing at his flesh, cruel reminders of the relentless pursuit dogging his every step.
A cruel whisper cut through the night, the voice of an enemy soldier echoing with chilling certainty. "We have him cornered! There's nowhere for the Ashborn to run now!" the soldier barked, the triumphant lilt in his voice laced with the promise of imminent victory.
"Bring him to justice for what he has done to our kin!" another soldier roared, his words heavy with the weight of vengeance and retribution. The rancor in their voices served as a bitter reminder of the enmity that had consumed the once-peaceful lands, now torn asunder by the ravages of war.
As the enemy soldiers closed in, their menacing silhouettes punctuating the surrounding darkness, the duke's breaths came in ragged gasps, the taste of blood staining his lips as he fought to quell the panic rising within him. Wounds marred his once-pristine body, testament to the relentless struggle that had defined his nightmarish flight through the heart of enemy territory.
"We have you now, Ashborn!" a soldier bellowed, the triumphant jeers of the encircling enemy soldiers melding into a chorus of bloodthirsty triumph. The duke's chest rose and fell in heaving breaths, his mind racing to find a glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching despair.
With a flicker of defiance in his eyes, he steadied himself, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. Moonlight danced upon the sharp edge, casting a shimmering glow that accentuated the lines of fatigue etched upon his face. The duke braced himself for the final confrontation, a silent resolve settling within him as he steeled his spirit for the inevitable clash that would determine the course of his destiny.
Lost in the throes of his haunting memory, the Ashborn Duke was suddenly jolted back to the present as an imposing figure emerged from the shadows. The enemy general, a towering figure with a countenance hardened by years of conflict, approached with an air of triumph and malice.
"Cedric the Mighty," the general intoned, his voice resonating with chilling certainty. "The Ashborn Dukedom will fall with you," he declared, a cruel glint in his eye as he unsheathed his sword, the polished steel glinting in the faint moonlight filtering through the thick forest canopy.
With a swift, deadly motion, the enemy general brought his sword down in a vicious arc aimed at Cedric's neck. The Ashborn Duke braced himself for the fatal blow, his heart pounding in his chest, the weight of impending doom bearing down upon him. To his astonishment, the sword halted mere millimeters from his skin, suspended in midair as if held back by an unseen force.
In a surreal tableau that defied all logic and reason, Cedric beheld a sight that shattered the boundaries of comprehension. The heads of the enemy soldiers littered the ground, their lifeless eyes frozen in bewildered disbelief. Even the imposing figure of the enemy general, his face contorted in a mask of rage and confusion, had succumbed to the same fate.
Their lifeless forms lay scattered across the forest floor, a macabre tapestry bearing witness to an inexplicable force that had torn through their ranks with relentless ferocity. The Duke's mind reeled, struggling to grasp the incomprehensible nature of the tragedy that had unfolded before him.
Amidst the chaos, Cedric's gaze was drawn to a shadow lingering in the dark recesses of the woods, an enigmatic silhouette that seemed to waver and shift with an ethereal grace. Their eyes locked for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange transcending mortal understanding.
In an instant, the shadow dissipated, leaving behind an eerie stillness that enveloped the forest. The echoes of battle faded into the night, leaving Cedric alone amidst the haunting silence, the memory of that inexplicable event etched into the fabric of his being.
Cedric's chest heaved as he slowly exhaled, the weight of the recent memory lingering heavily upon his mind. Questions churned within him, testament to the enigma that had taken root in his consciousness.
"Who was that man?" Cedric muttered, his voice barely audible in the stillness. "How did he possess such power?" he mused, his brow furrowed with a mixture of awe and apprehension. "Why didn't I speak in that moment? Why didn't I ask him, or even thank him?" he questioned, his mind reeling with the implications of his reticence.
"Was I scared of him?" Cedric pondered, a note of defiance creeping into his thoughts. "I'm not afraid of death."
Cedric's inner turmoil continued to swirl, his thoughts grappling with the possibility of forces defying mortal understanding. "Perhaps I was scared," he admitted, vulnerability lacing his voice. "Scared that there might be more such beings lurking in the shadows, concealed from our understanding, their motives veiled in darkness," he mused, uncertainty casting a shadow over his resolute demeanor.
"What are they?" Cedric's thoughts echoed, laced with apprehension. "Spawn of the devil?" he questioned, the notion lingering like an unsettling whisper. Entities defying the laws of nature loomed large in his mind, shattering the illusion of security that once cloaked his world.
Grasping the unsettling implications of the encounter, memories of another pivotal event surfaced within his consciousness. The recollection of his child's birth emerged with stark clarity, the haunting echo of a singular note piercing the air, defying the boundaries of his familiar world.
"I am certain he is one of them," Cedric conceded, resignation tingeing his thoughts. "An anomaly amidst the fabric of our reality, a being defying the limitations of mortal understanding," he surmised, grappling with the implications of a world harboring such enigmatic entities.
"What should I do now?" Cedric murmured, uncertainty creeping into his consciousness. The weight of responsibility bore down upon him, the burden of safeguarding his realm from the insidious forces lurking beyond human perception.
With a heavy sigh, Cedric rose from his reverie, determination in his eyes as he resolved to confront the mysteries shrouded within the darkness. His duty as the Ashborn Duke beckoned, urging him to tread cautiously amidst the shadows threatening to engulf his world.
A solid knock on the door resonated through the dimly lit chamber, punctuating the tense silence enveloping Cedric's study. "Come in," Cedric beckoned, his voice commanding yet tinged with concern. As the heavy oaken door creaked open, Cedric's loyal knight ushered in the royal doctor, a figure of learned distinction and poise. Draped in an embroidered cloak of deep crimson, the doctor exuded an air of scholarly wisdom, a testament to his years of devoted service to the Delacroix dynasty. His silver-streaked hair, meticulously combed and tied in a neat braid, framed a weathered countenance marked by the trials and triumphs of a life dedicated to the pursuit of healing.
"Doctor Aric," Cedric greeted him with a nod, acknowledging the gravity of the situation befalling his beloved wife. "How is she?" he inquired, his voice betraying a hint of apprehension that belied the steel resolve etched into his features.
Aric, the royal doctor, met Cedric's gaze with a somber expression, his steely eyes reflecting the weight of the mystery shrouding the Duchess's slumber. "She is breathing and appears unharmed," Aric began, his voice measured and composed. "However, for reasons yet unknown to me, she has not stirred from her sleep," he concluded, his brow furrowed with a mix of professional concern and empathetic understanding.
"What do you mean she is not waking up?" Cedric demanded, anxiety lacing his words. "What is going on? When will she wake up? Is it because of her birth?" The questions spilled out in rapid succession, each reflecting the tumultuous thoughts churning within him.
Aric raised a calming hand, his demeanor composed yet underscored by deep empathy. "Let's give the Duchess some days," he suggested, his voice carrying a note of cautious optimism. "We are in uncharted territory. I have administered some basic medicine, but now the only thing we can do is pray," he concluded, his gaze meeting Cedric's with a shared understanding of the gravity of the situation.
"Illnesses of the mind are the hardest," Cedric reflected, his voice tinged with somber recognition of the arduous struggle ahead. "They require a continuous battle with ourselves. I'm sure the Duchess will emerge victorious, as she has in many political battles," he affirmed, unwavering conviction underscoring his words.
"Of course, Your Grace," Aric responded, his voice carrying a subdued reassurance born from years of tending to the well-being of the noble Delacroix family. "Just send word, and I can come anytime," he offered, commitment to the Duchess's recovery unwavering in the face of daunting uncertainty.
"Thank you, Aric," Cedric acknowledged with a nod, his gratitude a silent testament to the shared understanding binding them in dedication to the well-being of the Delacroix household. With a wave of his hand, he instructed his trusted knight to escort the royal doctor back to the palace, watching as the heavy oaken door closed behind them, leaving Cedric alone with his thoughts and the solemn weight of impending uncertainty.