Little did they know, one of Serath's men had managed to escape the brutal ambush, slipping away into the shadows amidst the chaos. Bloodied and exhausted, he ran for miles without stopping, ensuring his own safety above all else. His heart pounded in his chest, fear driving him forward. He knew what awaited him if he failed to deliver his report to King Edric.
When he finally reached the borders of the Kingdom of Arathorne, he collapsed at the gates of a small outpost. The guards quickly took him in, recognizing the emblem of the King's intelligence unit. After receiving some brief medical attention, he was rushed to the capital, Stormhaven, to make his report.
Inside the grand hall of Stormhaven, King Edric Arathorne III sat on his high throne, his expression stern and contemplative as he listened to the survivor recount the events. The spy, still shaking from the ordeal, recounted every detail with precision.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice hoarse, "we were on our way back from Valewood when we were attacked by a strange group. A goblin, two elves, and a human-like creature... but I swear upon my life, he wasn't human. He wielded a massive scythe with an unnatural ease, and his eyes... his eyes were like crimson fire."
King Edric's cold gray eyes narrowed, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest of his throne. "And you are certain of this?" he demanded, his voice filled with the heavy weight of suspicion.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the spy stammered. "They came out of nowhere, and they... they slaughtered us. Only I managed to escape. I marked the location where we encountered them, but... they were strong, far stronger than anything I've ever seen."
The king's expression darkened further, his calculating mind already turning over this new information. "A goblin, elves, and... something else," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. He could sense something unusual, something dangerous. "No mere band of rebels," he mused, "but who are they?"
Anger boiled in King Edric's veins. He had already planned to seize the Duchy of Valewood, but this unexpected interference threatened to complicate his ambitions. He could not afford unknown elements disrupting his plans.
Suddenly, his voice boomed across the hall, "Enough! I will not tolerate such defiance! They dared to kill my spies, they dared to oppose the will of Arathorne... they will be hunted down like the dogs they are!"
He turned sharply to his captain of the guard. "Send for the Crimson Blades," he ordered, his voice dripping with lethal intent. "They are my most trusted warriors. They will bring me this... group's heads."
The captain nodded and quickly left the chamber. Moments later, the king's most elite force, known as the Crimson Blades, entered the grand hall. Each warrior was renowned throughout the kingdom for their skill and ruthlessness in battle.
First was Alaric, a towering swordsman with long silver hair and a red cloak flowing over his battle-worn armor. His blade gleamed with a dark aura, and a thin smile played at his lips, knowing he had ended countless lives.
Beside him stood Tiberius, a colossal figure clad in heavy, intricately designed armor. He wielded a massive shield and a mace, his movements slow but powerful. His stoic demeanor and silent gaze reflected years of battle experience.
To Tiberius's right was Lucas, a lean figure with sharp, calculating eyes. His twin pistols hung from his belt, with a rifle slung across his back. He exuded cocky confidence, scanning the hall with a smirk as if already plotting his next shot.
Finally, there was Seraphine, a slender, striking woman with vibrant red hair. She carried two razor-sharp blades, and her reputation as an aerial assassin was well-earned. Seraphine's movements were graceful yet lethal, like a predator ready to strike.
"My Crimson Blades," King Edric addressed them, his voice hard as iron. "I have a mission for you. A group has attacked our intelligence unit, leaving only one survivor. Among them, a goblin, two elves, and a creature that wields a scythe—a creature not quite human. Find them. Destroy them. Leave no trace."
Alaric's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "We will find them, Your Majesty," he vowed. "And we will make them regret ever crossing the Kingdom of Arathorne."
The four warriors bowed and left the hall, their expressions filled with a cold determination.
Meanwhile, Noir continued his journey alone, his steps quick and purposeful, yet his thoughts clouded with the recent encounter. The weight of his decision to leave the others behind pressed heavily on his mind, though his face remained expressionless.
Grid, after a moment of internal struggle, decided he needed to return to his goblin clan. The threat of war loomed over them, and he felt a duty to warn them and ensure their safety. With a last glance at Noir's back, Grid turned and slipped away into the shadows, making his way toward his people.
Noir continued to walk, his feet moving automatically, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions. But then, something began to stir within him. A voice, quiet at first, but growing louder, gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.
"What are you doing?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper, but laced with frustration. "You left them... but why?"
His pace quickened, almost breaking into a run. As he moved, he could feel his conscience starting to manifest, a rare occurrence that unsettled him. Memories flashed through his mind—moments with Lyralei, Thalor, even Grid. He had seen their determination, their loyalty, their willingness to stand by him despite everything.
"You can't just abandon them," he growled, his fists clenching, his speed increasing as he sprinted through the trees. "You... you can't."
Asmodeus's voice laughed darkly in his mind. "Oh, the great Noir has a conscience now, does he? How quaint. They are weak, bound by emotion. You need none of that."
But Takir's voice was more contemplative. "Emotions make you weak, true... but they also make you strong in ways a blade never can. Consider what you lose by letting them go."
Noir shook his head, growling. "Damn you both," he muttered, still running, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. "I decide my own path."
He could see the distant outlines of the Elven village ahead. His heart pounded, his chest burning, but he didn't slow down. He had made his choice.
Lyralei and Thalor had walked away, but he wasn't about to let them go that easily.
"Wait," he called out as he approached, his voice carrying through the trees. "Lyralei! Thalor!"
They turned, surprise flashing in their eyes. Lyralei's face softened slightly, though she tried to maintain her stern expression.
"Changed your mind, have you?" she asked, a hint of a challenge in her voice.
Noir's breath was heavy, but his expression was resolute. "You want to protect Valewood," he said bluntly. "Fine. But I'm not doing this for the duchy... I'm doing it for you."
Thalor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "For us?"
Noir nodded, his tone firm. "I don't owe Valewood anything, but I won't let those who stood by me face death alone."
A smile tugged at Lyralei's lips, and she exchanged a glance with Thalor. "Well then," she said, her tone lighter, "looks like you're coming with us after all."
Grid appeared behind them, nodding firmly, his toothy grin wide. "And I'm coming too. My goblins are in danger, and I'll fight for them... but also for you, Noir. I've seen enough to know I want to stand by your side."
Noir's face remained serious, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes. "Then let's move," he said, turning back towards the forest. "We have a lot of ground to cover before the real battle begins."
And so, with renewed purpose, they headed back towards Valewood, unaware of the new threat hunting them from the shadows—the Crimson Blades, relentless and determined to fulfill their king's orders.
The hunt was on.
The Crimson Blades moved with the precision of predators, slipping through the dense forest, always on the alert, every step calculated and cautious. They had been traveling for days, relentless in their pursuit, their senses keen for any sign of their quarry. Their leader, Alaric, led the way, his silver hair catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above, his sword ready in his grip.
As they ventured deeper into the forest, they came upon a village, nestled in a small clearing. Alaric raised his hand, signaling for the group to halt. They moved into the shadows, watching silently. From their vantage point, they could see elves moving hurriedly about, gathering weapons, supplies, and securing their homes. There was an urgency in their movements—an urgency that spoke of preparation for war.
"Looks like they're expecting trouble," Lucas muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.
Seraphine grinned, her blades glinting in the light. "Or maybe our targets have warned them," she whispered, her voice soft but laced with venom. "Shall we find out?"
Alaric nodded, his eyes never leaving the village. "We go in silently. Look for anything or anyone suspicious. Our target is a group—two elves, a goblin, and a man with a scythe. If they're here, we'll flush them out."
They moved as one, slipping through the shadows with deadly grace. They circled the village, their movements silent and calculated, their eyes scanning for any sign of their prey.
As they moved closer, Noir, who had been standing near the center of the village, suddenly stiffened. His senses tingled with awareness—a feeling of being watched, hunted. He had grown accustomed to this sensation in the past, but this felt different. It was sharper, more focused, more... dangerous.
"We're not alone," he muttered to himself, his crimson eyes narrowing. Slowly, he began to walk toward the entrance of the village, his steps measured, his gaze vigilant, ready for anything.
From their hidden positions, the Crimson Blades watched as Noir approached. Alaric's eyes widened slightly as he saw the man's piercing crimson gaze and the wicked scythe resting casually on his shoulder.
"That's him," Alaric whispered, his voice filled with cold excitement. "Wait until he's clear of the village."
Noir continued walking, sensing the presence growing closer, his grip on the Grimreaper tightening. As he stepped into the shadows of the forest, he stopped and glanced around, his gaze piercing the darkened trees.
"Come out," he called, his voice low and taunting. "Are you the ones your king sent to avenge his weak servants?"
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, with a sharp rustle of leaves, the Crimson Blades emerged from the shadows, spreading out in a loose formation. Alaric stepped forward, his sword drawn, his eyes locked onto Noir.
"So, you're the one," Alaric said, his tone calm but filled with menace. "The one who killed our men."
Noir's lips curled into a cold smile. "They were hardly worth the effort," he replied dismissively. "Is that why you're here? To meet the same fate?"
Alaric's smile never faltered. "We're here to deliver justice," he replied. "You and your companions will pay for your defiance against the Kingdom of Arathorne."
Noir raised his scythe slightly, readying himself. "Then come and take it," he challenged, his voice a low growl.
With a sudden burst of speed, Alaric lunged forward, his sword flashing in the dappled light of the forest. Noir met the attack head-on, parrying with the Grimreaper, sparks flying as their blades clashed. The other members of the Crimson Blades moved in swiftly, surrounding Noir, their movements a deadly dance of coordinated strikes.
Back in the village, Lyralei sensed something was wrong. "Where is Noir?" she asked, concern lacing her voice.
Thalor's eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. "He was just here," he muttered, his tone calm but laced with urgency. "Something's not right."
Grid, crouched low, sniffed the air, his sharp nose twitching. "I smell trouble," he growled, a wide grin stretching across his face. "Noir's gone into the forest."
Without another word, the three companions took off toward the forest, moving quickly but cautiously. As they neared the tree line, they heard the sounds of battle—the clash of steel, the rush of footsteps, and the shouts of combat.
Lyralei's sharp eyes quickly spotted Noir engaged in a fierce fight against four warriors. She recognized the insignia on their armor immediately—the Crimson Blades, King Edric's elite forces.
"He's fighting Arathorne's best!" she shouted to Thalor and Grid. "We have to help him!"
Grid wasted no time. He charged forward, his small form darting through the undergrowth. He saw Tiberius, the heavily armored warrior, moving in to flank Noir. Tiberius's massive shield gleamed in the light, ready to defend against any attack.
With a fierce grin, Grid lunged at Tiberius, aiming for the gaps in his armor. "Let's dance, big guy!" Grid snarled, his dagger flashing as he attacked with his usual reckless energy. Tiberius, however, was not so easily overwhelmed. He swung his massive shield with the force of a battering ram, knocking Grid back a few steps.
"You'll have to do better than that, goblin," Tiberius growled, his deep voice booming from behind his helmet as he steadied himself, raising his shield once more.
But Grid only laughed, his bright yellow eyes gleaming with excitement. "Oh, I like a challenge!" he said, darting forward again, this time with even more speed, his small form making it difficult for Tiberius to land a solid blow. Grid's agility kept him moving just outside the range of Tiberius's powerful swings, and with a sudden leap, Grid managed to wedge his dagger into a weak spot between the warrior's armor plates.
Tiberius grunted in pain but didn't falter, slamming his shield down to try to crush Grid beneath it. "You're annoying," Tiberius spat, but Grid was already gone, having rolled out of harm's way with a wild cackle.
Meanwhile, Thalor had already drawn his bow, his deep blue eyes locking onto Lucas, the gunslinger of the Crimson Blades. Lucas noticed the archer and quickly took aim with his twin pistols. The two exchanged rapid volleys—arrows and bullets whizzing past each other in a deadly game of marksmanship.
"You think you can outshoot me?" Lucas taunted, his voice filled with arrogance as he twirled his pistols with practiced ease.
Thalor remained calm, his face stoic and focused. "We'll see," he replied coolly, loosing another arrow with pinpoint precision. Each of his shots was deliberate, aiming to cripple rather than kill, slowing Lucas down with every strike.
Lyralei, meanwhile, spotted Seraphine, the agile assassin, moving in to flank Noir from above. With a swift movement, she notched an arrow and fired, her shot aimed to intercept Seraphine's path. The assassin dodged effortlessly, her razor-sharp blades gleaming as she leaped from tree to tree with unnatural grace, closing in on Noir.
"You're mine!" Seraphine hissed as she descended from the branches, her speed and agility allowing her to strike with blinding precision.
Noir, sensing her approach, spun around, his scythe sweeping upward in a powerful arc. "Not today," he growled, parrying her twin blades with a deafening clash. His crimson eyes glowed with cold fury as he activated Umbra Step, disappearing into the shadows and reappearing behind Seraphine in an instant.
Seraphine's eyes widened as she realized Noir's trick, but it was too late. Noir swung the Grimreaper in a vicious horizontal slash, the edge of the scythe grazing her arm as she barely dodged the killing blow.
"Slippery," Noir remarked, his voice steady, "but not fast enough."
The battle raged on, each side pushing and pulling, neither willing to give an inch. Blood stained the forest floor, the scent of steel and sweat thick in the air. Every move was calculated, every strike aimed to kill.
Grid continued his assault on Tiberius, using his smaller size and agility to his advantage. He danced around the larger warrior, taunting him with reckless abandon. "Come on, you tin can!" Grid roared, dodging a heavy strike from Tiberius's mace. "Is that all you've got?"
Tiberius grunted, swinging his shield in a wide arc, but Grid was too fast. He leapt onto Tiberius's back with surprising agility, sinking his dagger into the weak points in the armor. "Gotcha!" Grid cackled, his yellow eyes gleaming with savage glee.
With a mighty effort, Tiberius swung Grid off his back, sending the goblin crashing to the ground. But before Tiberius could follow up with a killing blow, Grid rolled to his feet, grinning wildly. "You hit like a mule! But I love a good fight!"
Thalor, seeing an opportunity, unleashed a volley of arrows at Lucas, forcing the gunslinger to retreat. Lucas, realizing he was outmatched in close quarters, tried to reposition, but Thalor was relentless, pinning him down with shot after shot.
"Got you," Thalor muttered, loosing one final arrow that struck Lucas through the heart. The gunslinger's eyes widened in disbelief before he collapsed, his twin pistols falling from his lifeless hands.
Lyralei finally managed to corner Seraphine, the assassin's agility starting to wane. "This ends now," Lyralei said coldly, her bright green eyes glowing with determination. She released a flurry of arrows, each one aimed to leave Seraphine no room to escape.
Seraphine, though skilled, could not evade Lyralei's precision forever. One arrow struck her thigh, another pierced her shoulder. She stumbled, her movements faltering. "You're fast," Seraphine gasped, "but I'm not done yet."
Lyralei's expression remained calm and focused. "You already are," she said quietly, loosing a final arrow that found its mark in Seraphine's chest. The assassin fell, her twin blades slipping from her grasp as she collapsed to the ground, defeated.
Noir turned his attention back to Alaric, who was panting heavily, blood dripping from a deep cut on his forehead. "You fought well," Alaric said, his voice strained but filled with grudging respect. "But it's over."
Noir's gaze was icy, his crimson eyes glowing with a dangerous intensity. "For you, maybe," he replied, his voice low and cold. With a swift, decisive swing of the Grimreaper, he cut Alaric down. The leader of the Crimson Blades fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the ground. Alaric looked up one last time, his eyes dimming before he collapsed, lifeless.
The forest grew silent, the bodies of the Crimson Blades scattered around them. Noir and his companions stood amidst the carnage, their breathing heavy but their resolve unbroken.
"Is that all of them?" Lyralei asked, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Noir nodded, his expression grim. "For now." He glanced around, his eyes scanning the forest. "But there will be more."
The companions knew the fight was far from over. The Kingdom of Arathorne would not give up easily, and they would need to be ready for whatever came next. But for now, they had won.
And they would fight again.