The afternoon sun cast long shadows across Hughen's Road, a dusty town nestled in the remote western reaches of the Republic of Feaudalland, far from the bustling heart of Atiquiran on the west continent. Inside the dimly lit tavern, The Rusty Tankard, a motley crew gathered, swapping tales and tankards with equal passion.

Among them were three adventurers, bound by shared battles and countless mugs of ale. Gørg, a dwarf with a bushy beard and even bushier eyebrows, thumped his empty tankard on the table. "Aye, I wrestled a sabertooth bare-handed! Fought it with fist and blood, I did!"

Cassandra, raven dark hair cascading along her broad shoulder, eyes gleamed with fresh, flaming amber, clad in gleaming armor that bore the nicks and dents of countless adventures, snorted. "A fascinating story, Gørg, but a tad embellished, I'd said!"

Ava, a young mage with fiery red hair that tumbled down her shoulders, let out a tinkling laugh.

Gørg turned on her, his frustration shown. "Oh come on! Me tell the truth, aye! It ain't no baloney!"

Undeterred, Cassandra, her pride piqued, slammed her own tankard down. "Enough of Gørg's tall tales! I have a story that puts yours to shame. A tale of facing death itself!"

Gørg scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Cassandra. You and facing death? Now that's pure bull hockey."

"Hold your horses, Gørg," Cassandra interjected. "You haven't heard the story yet."

The dwarf grumbled but acquiesced. "Fine, fine. Spit it out then!"

Taking a deep breath, Cassandra leaned in, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "I once encountered a Nàbelra in the forest. Those creatures of legend, with their haunting gaze, chilling fog, and the way they mimic the voices of Ferans (The term to describe those established in Ferania like earthlings)..." Just her short say sent shivers down Ava's spine.

Gørg's eyes widened. "A Nàbelra? Those things are rarer than a dragon's tooth!"

Ava, filled with curiosity and doubt, cut in. "But how did you survive, Cassandra? Ones without the blessing of magic bound to fall under its evil play."

A smug smile played across Cassandra's lips. "It wasn't easy! But you see, I used to be a 'child of the light!' Holy magic was part of my specialty, and you know it's struck true Nàbelra's weakness."

"Bah! That's a load of hooey!" Gørg boomed. "Never seen you cast any holy magic, except for your morning rites!"

Ava chimed in, her agreement laced with a hint of disappointment. "Gørg's right. We've never seen a holy spell from you, Cassandra, apart from your daily prayers."

Cassandra's smile faltered. "It wasn't meant for display or combat. It was a sacred blessing from Her Divineness, grace herself! Not something I waste on bar brawls."

"Sounds like a fancy way of saying you're making it up," Gørg pressed, his skepticism growing. "Show us this holy trick of yours, then we'll believe ya!"

Ava's eyes sparkled at the thought of witnessing true holy magic. "Yeah, Cassandra, show us a little something!"

Cassandra's jaw tightened. "As I said, it's not a trick to be flaunted! It's sacred!"

Gørg snorted. "Knew it. All talk and no bite."

Frustration tinged Cassandra's voice. "Look, I'm not going to argue with you two. Let's just drop it."

Cassandra downed her drink in one go, the ale burning a welcome warmth down her throat. 

She turned to Ava, a playful glint in her eye. "Alright, since the two of us already shared our tales, young mage, it's your turn to entertain us. For someone with magical artistry, you must have your thrilling adventures of your own now, don't you?"

Ava flushed, a touch embarrassed. "Well, my stories aren't quite as...dramatic as yours." 

Ava wasn't ready, especially sharing the tales of her own. Given that, Ava had always been the modest one, parading her past wasn't something she partake.

"Nonsense!" Cassandra scoffed. "Let's hear it. Yours is bound to be more fascinating than Mr. Grizzly here," she added with a wink, earning a grumble from Gørg.

"Shut it would ya, Cass," he muttered, downing another ale shivering in his burly hand.

Ava, ignoring their playful banter, took a deep breath. "Alright, I do have a story," she began. "It's about a fairy I met in the Feywood."

Gørg's eyes lit up. "Fairy, aye? Now that's a tale I want to hear, lass!" he boomed, raising his tankard in a mock salute.

Ava smiled. "Well, you see, mages are supposed to learn to communicate with various spiritual beings," she explained. "That includes faeries, of course, and some… less pleasant entities like specters."

"Sounds like a tricky business," Gørg commented, taking a large gulp of ale.

"It can be," Ava admitted. "But meeting the fairy was a wonderful experience. I learned a lot just talking to her."

"Like what?" Gørg pressed, leaning forward in his chair.

"She told me about the secrets of the forest," Ava said, her voice filled with awe. "How the trees observe us, how they are almost sentient beings. If one could learn to listen, the forest whispers tales of the ancient past. By understanding the forest, a mage can unlock incredible potential and gain a deeper connection to the world."

Cassandra snorted, interrupting Ava. "Sounds a bit like Gørg's tall tales, doesn't it? So, can you talk to the trees now, Ava?"

Ava shook her head. "No, not really. Unlocking that potential takes more than any ordinary mage can achieve. It's said that only the Divine Mages can truly converse with the forest."

Gørg amazed. "Divine Mages?! Those are the most powerful mages in the world, aren't they?"

Ava nodded. "Yes, and incredibly rare. There have only been a handful in history."

"Well… a bookworm like you must've known some, do you know any of them?" Cassandra teased, yet her voice filled with curiosity.

Ava shook her head again. "Not personally. But you're right, I've read about them. One of the currently most notable Divine Mages is Hemla, Hemla Atr'iara Lor'fen. Maybe you've heard of her?"

Gørg burst out laughing. "Oh! That pointy-eared legend! Or what others appellated her, Mold-fur-aunt Ar Me-vara?"

Ava's eyes narrowed. "It's M'afuran Ar Mi'mvara, Gørg, it meant the Elder of Mi'mvara, a guild only for those who practiced the magic of the old," she corrected, her voice laced with annoyance at his deliberate butchering of the name.

The dwarf chuckled, unfazed. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, lass. Tomato, tomahto."

Cassandra, ignoring their bickering, chimed in. "Yeah, I've heard whispers about her. They say her spells are so powerful she can wipe out an entire army with a flick of her finger."

"Wow, I guess that's what it takes to become the strongest that is," Ava breathed, her eyes wide with awe. "I would love to meet her someday. She's literally the paragon of any mages."

"Aye… whatever, she is. No way she can beat-", before Gørg could finish his words, the tavern door creaked open, momentarily silencing the boisterous crowd. 

A group of heavily armed men strode in, their armor gleaming in the dim light. Whispers broke out as patrons recognized them, murmuring the names of legendary warriors.

These weren't your typical adventurers. Scars etched lines across their faces, a testament to countless battles fought and won. 

Their boots landed on the creaking floor with the quiet confidence of seasoned veterans, their gaze sweeping across the room before they headed towards the back, clearly not interested in mingling with the locals.

Cassandra's eyes widened. "They're here! The Radiant Heart!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement.

Gørg scoffed, unimpressed. "Bah, probably just a bunch of overhyped adventurers with rich families backing them." He took another swig of ale, clearly not sharing Cassandra's enthusiasm.

"Hey there, now, Mr Grumpy," Cassandra interjected, her voice firm. "Getting paid doesn't excuse their achievements. These are warriors who stare death in the face and come out stronger." Cass continued, her chest puffed pridefully, "They've done things most adventurers wouldn't dare."

Ava, ever the observant one, piped up. "But… something's clearly missing in their group."

Cassandra frowned. "What do you mean, Ava?"

"Look closer," Ava said, pointing with a slender finger. "They're all fighters. Not a single mage or rogue among them."

Cassandra squinted at the figures disappearing towards the back of the tavern. "You're right," she admitted, surprised by the oversight. "How do they manage such difficult battles without ranged support?"

Gørg, ever the cynic, scoffed. "See? I told you. Bunch of overpaid pretty boys."

"Shut your lousy tongue and drink your ale, will ya," Cassandra retorted, vexed by Gørg's scornful remarks.

"Aye… me just telling the truth, whether you like it or nay," Gørg shrugged.

While the adventurers debated the merits of the Radiant Heart, a scene unfolded outside the tavern. Nestled against the wooden wall ledge that surrounded Hughen's Road, on a makeshift seat formed from a discarded barrel, sat two guards. 

One, a young man named Will, nervously clutched a scrap of paper filled with scrawled poetry.

"For Jenny, aye?" a voice startled Will, causing him to jump and grip his chest.

"Marcus! You scared the life out of me!" he exclaimed, rubbing his pounding heart.

A broad-shouldered man named Marcus chuckled as he settled beside Will. "Relax, kid. You're jumpy as a rabbit."

Will sighed. "Night watch isn't exactly a picnic now."

"Don't sweat it, kid," Marcus said, pulling a bottle of ale from his cloak. "Night watch isn't as bad as you think. Care for a sip?"

Will's eyes widened. "Marcus, we can't be drinking on duty!"

Marcus held up a hand dismissively. "Nonsense! Just a little something won't hurt anyone. Come on, loosen up kid! It's just gonna be another long, cold night anyway!"

Will sighed, frustration lacing his voice. "Just because it's been another quiet night doesn't mean—" He cut himself off, his eyes widening as he spotted movement in the undergrowth beyond the flickering firelight.

"Marcus, look!" he hissed, he leaped up from his perching barrel, pointing towards the bushes.

Marcus, a veteran guard with a perpetually hoarse voice, turned his head in the direction Will pointed. "Yeah, so?" he replied with a disinterested shrug. "Could be anything – rats, birds, you name it."

"But Marcus," Will pressed, worry creeping into his voice, "we can't just ignore it. What if—"

Will's sentence was abruptly cut short. An arrow, loosed from the unseen depths of the bushes, tore through the air with a deadly whistle. 

*Thwack*

It found its mark, burying itself deep into Will's throat. He choked, and blood leaked from his neck as he crumpled to the ground, a strangled cry escaping his lips.

Panic flooded Marcus's face. He lunged for Will, his own training kicking in. He shoved the young guard against the wall, seeking shelter, and pressed his hand frantically against Will's wound. "Will! Hold on, kid! We'll get help!" he rasped, his voice stuffed with fear.

"Marc…us…," Will grasped Marcus's arm firmly, "Sound… the… bell…" Will choked out, his eyes wide with terror as he struggled for breath. 

Before he could get another word out, his body went limp, his struggles ceasing.

Grief stirred within Marcus. He gently closed Will's eyelids, and with a surge of adrenaline, he scrambled to his feet, climbing down the ladder from the ledge.

He needed to sound the alarm, to warn the village of the danger lurking in the shadows. To request the reinforcement of the guards.

But… 

it was too late.

A deafening roar echoed through the night as the wall behind Marcus shattered. 

Debris and dust tumbled through the air. Amid the fragments, a monstrous creature, a Duskmaw, lumbered through the gap. Colossal in size, it sported thick orange fur, a gaping maw lined with razor-sharp teeth, and powerful claws that could tear through steel armor with ease.

Before Marcus could escape, the Duskmaw lunged. Its massive mouth snatched him whole from the back, a horrifying scream escaping his lips, pleading for mercy and help.

Before he reached for his weapon or was saved by the others, the sound of flesh tearing and bones crunching pierced through the quiet night, waking the nearby locals.

The other guards clocked in from either the weary barracks or their mundane patrols, alerted by Marcus's scream, came rushing from their posts. 

They froze in horror as they witnessed the monstrous scene. Pandemonium erupted as the Duskmaw roared in triumph, its orange fur stained crimson. Villagers, awakened by the commotion, poured out of their homes, their screams adding to the chaos.

Standing atop the monstrous beast, surveying the terrified villagers, was a single figure. A goblin, its wiry frame barely a shadow against the Duskmaw's bulk. 

It wore a human skull as a gruesome trophy and held a wickedly barbed bow in its hand. It cackled with sadistic glee, its high-pitched laughter a chilling counterpoint to the scene of carnage.

The guards scrambled to form a shaky defensive line in front of the terrified villagers. Attempting to protect and escort the villagers to safety.

Fears, sweats, and gasps imbued this only agonizing atmosphere. 

The guards locked their gaze at the lumbering creature. Ceased their advance. 

Right then, one of them yelled, "It's just one goblin and a Duskmaw!" his voice cracking slightly. "We can take them!"

Another guard, enthused by the first, joined in, "Yeah! He's right! It's just the two of them! Let's get them!", 

Soon after the declaration, the peers exchanged a determined nod, before charging in like a headless chicken.

Cries and roars echoed through their rumbling feet, raising their blade high. 

Hastily, a figure appeared before the rank, slamming his hand down on the yet-charging guard's shoulder, halting the rest in their tracks.

It was Silas, the Guard Captain, his face stretched with worry. "Men, halt your steps!" he barked.

But his warning came too late. A rain of arrows, silent and deadly, erupted from the rooftop of a nearby building. 

In a swift moment, the charging guards failed to react and were completely engulfed by the arrows, crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

It was a trap set by the goblins. The goblins, far more cunning than anyone had anticipated, had infiltrated the town under the cover of darkness. They lurked on rooftops, their arrows finding their mark with deadly accuracy.

As the men fell, Silas watched with apprehension, his gut wrenching, urging him to look away.

Those who survived came crawling toward their captain, pleading for help, but only to be crushed by the Duskmaw's foot immediately. 

Silas shut his eyes in a grimace, reacting to his men being flattened.

Silas quickly took a breather, before regaining his composure, raising his fist, and signaling the rest, still living, to retreat back to the defensive position. 

"Cease your advance! Archers on the roof! Defensive positions!" Silas roared.

As the revolting scene unfolded, panic and distress surged through the remaining guards. 

One of them, a young guard with wide, terrified eyes, let out a cry. "How did they get in?!"

The guards had dissolved into panicked shouts and desperate pleas. "This attack is unlike anything we've faced before!" another bellowed. "They're too organized!"

Silas scanned the scene. The once peaceful town square was now a battlefield. Townsfolk, caught off guard and unarmed, were being slaughtered with horrifying efficiency. 

Whereas the men had become the victims of slaughter while the maidens were abducted for more wicked intent.

Blood smeared on the cobblestones, screams filled the air, and the sickening stench of death hung heavy in the night.

Goblins, inspired by their success, surged through the shattered wall, their shrill laughter adding to the chaos.

As the arrows continued to volley against the guards, more had fallen. Leaving only a handful of them, stationed to their inevitable.

Despite the diminishing numbers, Silas knew, he knew they must hold the line. They must buy time for the townspeople to escape. After all, it's their duty and obligation to protect the people rather than their own.

"Men, we hold the line!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with exertion. "Get the people to safety!"

But the fear was evident among the guardsmen. 

A guard, an instigator, dropped his sword with a shaky hand. "No… no…! I… I don't want to die," he whimpered, turning to flee.

Silas watched him vanish into the darkness, fear, and rage brewing in his stomach. "Joseph!" he bellowed.

With the guard deserting the rank, he glanced back at the remaining guards. 

There, he realized, many of the guards trembled, barely holding their swords aloft. Others flickered with the temptation to follow Joseph, their fear was apparent. 

Under this dire time, even though they were outnumbered in both skills and units, Silas knew he should command his men to fight, even if it was a lost cause. 

But he also couldn't bear to see more of his people to be wasted, leaving their families behind.

With a round of short contemplation, he knew these men were town guards, not seasoned warriors. He knew this whole ordeal was bound to end in massacre.

An unexpected attack like this, an attack this brutal and coordinated, was beyond anything they had ever trained or signed up for.

With a sigh, Silas realized the grim truth. These men wouldn't hold. They would only become casualties.

He straightened his shoulders, his eyes hardened. "Listen!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Those who are too afraid to fight, retreat! But the rest of you, for those who wished to withhold their honor! We fight for the weak, buy enough time for them to flee! We fight for Hughen's Road!"

A split second of stunned silence followed Silas's order, a clatter of dropped weapons and panicked shouts followed swiftly, and several dozen more guards abandoned their posts and fled into the night.

Silas was downhearted for a tick, but he was appeased by a good portion that remained, who was now more encouraged than ever, embraced with resolve.

Silas scanned his remaining men, his heart hung heavy but he smiled, knowing at least most of them would die with honor.

Just before he led the remaining men to their impending doom, he spotted Hank, his loyal lieutenant, standing firm, embracing the same fate with unwavering courage. Then, a reminder came crawling to his distraught, 'to sound the bell, warn the town, and journey to the capital, request reinforcement'.

With a quick contemplation, Silas grabbed Hank's arm and pulled him aside, his voice low in a desperate whisper. "Hank, you need to go. Sound the alarm bell, warn the town, then head for the capital. Request reinforcements."

Hank's jaw clenched. "But Captain, I want to fight! Or you'll all be killed!"

"And so will you if you stay," Silas retorted, deflecting an arrow with a practiced flick of his sword. "Go, sound the bell while you still can! It's better one of us survives than none."

"But Captain—" Hank began to argue, his voice tight with despair.

"Listen to me, Hank!" Silas cut him off, his voice laced with desperate urgency. "I don't care about your arguments! I don't care if it's for your dignity or any of your personal shenanigans! When you wore this armor," said Silas while poking Hank's armor, prompting the symbol as a town's guard, "your obligation is to follow the order and the command implicitly! And this is an order!"

Hank was stunned and met Silas's unwavering gaze. Despite the reluctance, he understood the assignment and the consequences for those challenging the orders. 

With a heavy heart and a silent vow to return with help, he nodded and saluted by hitting his chest with his clenched fist, sheathed his sword, and turned toward the town center. His pace quickened into a desperate sprint as he raced towards the alarm bell, the pounding of his boots echoing against the cobblestones.

Soon the silhouette of Hank blended in with the night sky, and Silas shifted his focus back to those atrocious green fiends. 

"Hold the line!" He repeated, his heart poured out with courage but the desperation followed. 

There, the guards held the line, desperate roar clashing in with the goblins. Silas flicked his wrists, deflecting any arrows that came for his lethal mark while tackling the charging fiends.

It was their duty to fight and protect.