Lucan followed the knight through the dimly lit camp, the chatter from the feast fading behind him. The tent ahead stood larger than the others, shadowed by the flickering firelight. As he stepped inside, the air felt thick, almost stifling. Gideon was there, talking quietly with a cloaked figure—Aeryn. Her lips barely moved as she whispered something into his ear, her figure melting into the shadows as soon as Lucan entered.
Standing tall, Lucan cleared his throat. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"
Gideon didn't respond immediately. He picked up the dreadclaw ursok fur from a nearby table, its dark, coarse hairs catching the firelight. The silence stretched, tension hanging in the air like a drawn bowstring. Lucan waited, his heart steady but his mind racing.
Finally, without looking up, Gideon asked, "Have you ever killed a man before, Lucan?"
The question hit him like a punch. He hadn't expected that. Lucan straightened, his voice calm. "No, I haven't."
Gideon's eyes finally met his, sharp and assessing. "So, you've never killed a man… but you took down a B-rank monster. Alone. At fifteen."
Lucan shifted slightly, shrugging off the praise. "It was just luck, Captain."
Gideon cut him off with a sharp glance. "Boy, don't play coy with me."
Lucan fell silent, watching as Gideon crossed the room, his movements slow, deliberate. "Do you want to be stronger?" the captain asked, his tone low but clear.
Surprised, Lucan met his gaze, unsure of where this was going. "Yes, sir."
Gideon's serious expression broke into a slight, knowing smile. He stepped closer, his imposing presence filling the room. "Starting tomorrow, I'll be training you personally."
Lucan's heart quickened, but he kept his composure. Inside, his thoughts raced with excitement. This is perfect, he thought. The captain's attention, training from him directly... this is better than I expected. A silent thank-you to Rylan echoed in his mind.
Gideon leaned back, his grin fading. "Oh, and one more thing. The fur and materials from the dreadclaw ursok? Consider it the fee for your training."
Lucan barely flinched. He didn't care about the bounty. "Yes, Captain," he replied without hesitation.
"Good," Gideon said with a nod, turning away as if the conversation had ended. "You're dismissed."
Lucan stepped outside the tent, the cool night air brushing his face. The campfire crackled in the distance, but his mind was already focused on what tomorrow would bring.
***
The Varyn Kingdom's army moved like a plague across the land of Eldoria, a force of 10,000 soldiers marching relentlessly through Eldoria's border. The sky above them was a dull gray, but the horror they left behind stained the earth red. Four villages had already fallen, reduced to little more than charred ruins. Smoke curled into the air where homes once stood. The men and boys had been slaughtered without mercy, their lifeless bodies left behind as grim warnings. The women and girls had been dragged away, shackled and screaming, their fate sealed as spoils of war.
It was a familiar pattern. The same cycle of death and despair. War never changed.
Among the ranks, there was one figure that stood out even amidst the terror. Tall and imposing, with cold, dead eyes that seemed to drink in the suffering around him, was Commander Draven Bloodreaver. His very name inspired fear. The soldiers of Varyn followed him without question, but none dared to look him in the eye for too long.
Draven's weapon of choice was as brutal as the man himself—a long, wicked spearblade that he wielded with terrifying precision. The dark steel gleamed in his hands, stained with the blood of countless victims. He had no need for armor that covered him fully—his mere presence on the battlefield was a shield. It wasn't just his prowess in combat that made him the most feared commander in Varyn. It was his cruelty. He was a man who relished in the kill, who found joy in watching life drain from his enemies' eyes.
As they passed the latest village, the screams of the captives still echoed in the distance. Draven walked through the destruction with a slow, deliberate pace, his spear resting on his shoulder. He barely glanced at the bodies underfoot, his gaze already fixed on the horizon. His thirst for blood was insatiable, his hunger for conquest endless. To him, this was just the beginning.
"Leave nothing behind," Draven ordered, his voice like ice, devoid of emotion. "We march to Eldoria's heart, and we will bleed them dry."
His men obeyed without hesitation, knowing well that disobedience would be met with the same cruelty he showed their enemies. The shadow of Varyn's might, under Draven's command, crept ever closer to the kingdom of Eldoria, bringing with it the promise of death, destruction, and enslavement.
And Draven, at the head of his army, smiled—a cruel, joyless grin. The bloodshed was only beginning.
The Varyn army settled into their camp as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the blood-soaked land. Tents were hastily erected, fires flickering to life as soldiers laughed and swapped stories of their brutal raids. But for some, the real entertainment was just beginning.
At the center of the camp, a crude wooden frame had been erected. Hanging from it by their wrists were a handful of Eldorian prisoners, their faces pale and drawn. They trembled as the soldiers circled them, bowstrings pulled taut, arrows pointed at their chests. A sickening game had begun. The soldiers placed bets, jeering at each other as they took turns aiming for the prisoners, their hands steady with the confidence of practiced killers.
The first arrow whistled through the air and struck one of the prisoners just below the shoulder. A scream tore through the night, but the soldiers only laughed, placing fresh bets on the next shot. One of them nocked an arrow, eyes gleaming with amusement, before loosing it straight into the thigh of another prisoner. More laughter. The hanging men swung like broken dolls, their blood soaking the dirt beneath them.
At the edge of the clearing, Draven Bloodreaver watched in silence, his cold eyes betraying nothing. This was his domain—his playground. He didn't need to participate. His cruelty was already known. But his presence alone was enough to fuel the soldiers' brutality, pushing them to darker depths. He took in the sight of the prisoners' suffering with the same interest a man might give to watching the embers of a dying fire.
Behind him, a group of captured Eldorian men stood trembling, their hands bound, forced to watch the twisted spectacle. Draven turned slowly, his gaze falling on them. His lips curled into a cruel smile, and without a word, he gestured for the guards to bring them forward.
The men stumbled as they were dragged to the center of the camp. The soldiers' laughter quieted, replaced by eager murmurs. Draven's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Fight."
The Eldorian men looked at each other in confusion, fear in their eyes. Draven stepped closer, his towering presence casting a shadow over them. He spoke again, his voice as cold as death itself.
"Fight each other. Or your sons, your wives, will be next."
The threat hung in the air, and the men's faces twisted in horror. For a moment, they hesitated, looking for any way out. But there was none. The soldiers of Varyn had already begun dragging women and children from the tents, forcing them to watch. Draven's smile widened as the Eldorian men realized there was no choice.
The first punch was hesitant, weak. But Draven's eyes flared, and he nodded to his soldiers. A scream cut through the night as one of the captives was dragged to her knees, a sword held at her throat. That was all it took. The men turned on each other, fists flying in desperation. Blood splattered the ground as they fought for survival, knowing that any hesitation would mean death for their loved ones.
Draven watched, his grip tightening on his spear blade as he leaned forward slightly, enjoying the show. The violence was meaningless, but it was raw, and it was real. The soldiers around him cheered, urging the men to strike harder, to draw more blood. Draven, still silent, only observed, his expression one of dark satisfaction.
By the time the last man fell, the ground was slick with blood, and the night was filled with the sounds of ragged breathing and quiet sobs. Draven turned away, his thirst for cruelty momentarily sated. But as he walked back to his tent, he knew the night was far from over.
There would always be more to break. And for Draven, that was the beauty of war.