Before the flames consumed Valewood, before the purges began, the armies of King Edric and the Duchy of Valewood clashed in a violent storm of steel and blood. The battle had been brewing for days, tensions building as King Edric's forces encircled the duchy, cutting off supply lines and positioning their siege weapons. The people of Valewood, led by their young duke, Julian Valewood, and coerced by the scheming nobles, prepared for what seemed like an inevitable confrontation.
On the walls of Valewood Keep, Julian Valewood stood with a strained expression, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. Beside him, Lord Rennard, the older, calculating noble who had always positioned himself as an advisor, watched the approaching army with a wary eye.
"Your Grace," Rennard said, his voice low and firm, his dark beard framing his serious expression. "We must negotiate. We cannot hope to stand against Arathorne's forces for long."
Julian, trying to maintain a brave face, replied, "Negotiate? They will demand our surrender, our lands... our people. I won't allow it."
Rennard sneered slightly, his tone dripping with cold pragmatism. "Allow it or not, boy, you have no choice. We are outnumbered and outmatched. King Edric has been planning this for months. We must think of the duchy, not just our pride."
Julian turned to him, frustration clear in his young eyes. "And what would you have me do? Kneel before Edric like a dog?"
Before Rennard could respond, Lady Anara cut in, her tone sharp and impatient, her tall, elegant frame imposing as she adjusted her practical yet refined clothing. "There's no time for debate. The enemy approaches. We fight or we die."
Lord Merek, standing a few paces away, looked grim, his rotund figure seeming even heavier under the weight of the situation. "We fight," he agreed, his voice resigned but resolute. "If we surrender now, we condemn ourselves to a life of servitude. Better to die fighting."
Baron Aldric, the most pragmatic of them, glanced at Merek with a frown, his sharp features tightening. "And if we fight and lose, we will not only die but doom our people to suffering and subjugation," he muttered, but his words were lost in the roar of the battle preparations.
The decision was made. The soldiers of Valewood, numbering far fewer than their adversaries, lined the walls, prepared to defend their home to the last. The air was thick with tension, the smell of fear and desperation mixing with the scent of damp earth.
Down below, King Edric stood with his generals, surveying the fortress of Valewood. His tall, imposing figure was draped in his heavy fur cloak, his steely gray eyes scanning the battlefield with cold calculation. He knew that a swift and brutal assault would break the spirit of the defenders and make the conquest swift.
"Are the catapults ready?" he asked his chief engineer, his voice authoritative and controlled.
"Aye, Your Majesty," the engineer replied. "Just waiting for your command."
Edric nodded, a thin, calculating smile playing on his lips. "Then let them fly," he ordered, his voice a low growl.
Moments later, the sky was filled with the sound of whistling stones, massive boulders hurled from the catapults, crashing into the walls of Valewood Keep. The defenders shouted in panic, some diving for cover, others raising their shields in a desperate attempt to block the debris.
Julian shouted over the noise, his voice cracking with strain, "Hold the line! Archers, ready!"
The archers, positioned along the walls, drew their bows and released a volley of arrows, aiming for the soldiers of Arathorne below. A few found their marks, striking down enemy soldiers, but it did little to slow the advance. The ground trembled as Edric's infantry, clad in gleaming armor, surged forward, shields up, spears at the ready.
Lord Rennard, still beside Julian, muttered, "This is madness... sheer madness."
Julian's eyes blazed, his fear hidden behind a mask of determination. "Then let them come! We'll make them pay for every inch!"
But it was clear, even to the most hopeful, that Valewood was outmatched. The soldiers of Arathorne moved like a tide, their shields locked, their movements coordinated. They breached the walls with siege towers and battering rams, and the fight spilled into the streets.
"Retreat to the inner keep!" Julian ordered, his voice breaking with strain. "Fall back!"
The defenders scrambled, moving back through the narrow streets, fighting desperately to hold off the advancing forces. But the soldiers of Arathorne were relentless, cutting down anyone who stood in their way.
Lady Anara fought valiantly, her sword a blur as she cut through the enemy ranks, her sharp green eyes scanning the battlefield with cold precision. She turned to Julian, shouting, "Get to safety, Your Grace! They're breaking through!"
Julian hesitated, his pride fighting against his fear. "I won't abandon my people!"
Lord Merek, bloodied but still standing, gripped Julian's arm, his voice grave. "Your death will do nothing for them now! Go!"
With a final, pained look at his soldiers, Julian turned and ran, retreating into the keep as the gates were slammed shut behind him.
Inside, the air was thick with the sounds of battle—the cries of the wounded, the clash of steel, and the shouts of orders. Julian stumbled, his breath ragged, his mind racing.
"I never asked for this," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. "I never wanted to be duke."
Baron Aldric, rushing to his side, caught his words and replied sharply, "None of us chose this, Julian, but here we are. You're our leader now, whether you like it or not."
Julian looked at him, his face pale but determined. "Then let's make them regret ever coming here."
The battle raged on outside, the soldiers of Valewood fighting desperately to hold back the tide. But the forces of Arathorne were too strong, too numerous. They pushed deeper into the keep, their swords cutting down all who opposed them.
Lord Rennard, seeing the futility of their defense, turned to Lady Anara and whispered, "We cannot win this."
Anara nodded grimly, her expression steely. "But we can make them bleed for every inch."
Rennard glanced back at Julian, his eyes narrowing with doubt. "And what of him?"
Anara's eyes softened slightly, her voice firm. "He's young, but he's our duke. We protect him, no matter what."
Rennard sighed, his expression conflicted. "For how long?"
Anara's gaze hardened again. "For as long as it takes."
The nobles, despite their differences and personal ambitions, found a temporary unity in the chaos of battle. Together, they fought, side by side with the soldiers, determined to defend their home.
But soon, the gates of the inner keep began to buckle under the relentless pounding of the enemy's battering ram. Julian stood at the front, sword in hand, flanked by his remaining soldiers and the nobles who had pledged to protect him.
"Brace yourselves!" he shouted, his voice filled with both fear and determination. "This is it!"
The gates burst open, and the soldiers of Arathorne poured in like a flood. The final stand had begun.
Lord Rennard grabbed Julian by the shoulder, his voice tense. "Your Grace, you must go! There's a hidden passage behind the throne room—take it!"
Julian shook his head stubbornly. "No! I cannot leave my people to die!"
Lady Anara stepped in, her eyes fierce. "We will hold them here as long as we can. But you... you must live, Julian. For the sake of Valewood's future."
Lord Merek added urgently, his tone pleading, "We need you to survive, Your Grace. You are our only hope to rally the people after this. Go now!"
Baron Aldric pushed Julian toward the back of the keep, his voice commanding. "We will cover your escape. Do not argue—just go!"
With a last glance at the fighting, Julian nodded, his eyes filled with anguish. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "For everything."
The nobles nodded, forming a line between Julian and the advancing enemy. "Go!" Rennard shouted.
Julian turned and ran, heading towards the hidden passage as the nobles closed ranks behind him. The sounds of the battle grew louder, more chaotic.
Julian slipped into the narrow corridor behind the throne room, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. He could hear the fighting, the shouts of his defenders, and the clash of steel on steel, echoing down the stone walls.
He hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of his decision, knowing he was leaving so many behind to face certain death. But he also understood that his survival was crucial for any hope of future resistance. With a determined look, he continued through the passage, knowing his escape was the only chance for Valewood's survival.
Behind him, the sounds of battle raged on.
King Edric watched from a distance, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Good," he murmured. "They break as expected. Now, finish it."
The siege engines continued their barrage, and within hours, the walls of Valewood Keep were breached. The soldiers of Arathorne poured in, overwhelming the defenders. The city fell, the cries of the defeated echoing in the smoke-filled air.
As King Edric's forces moved through the conquered streets of Valewood, the purge began. The soldiers, driven by both fear and fanaticism, moved door to door, dragging out elves, goblins, and any who were deemed impure. The orders were clear: eliminate all non-human creatures.
King Edric stood in the square, watching the chaos unfold with a cold, indifferent gaze. His captain approached, bowing slightly. "Your Majesty, the purges are underway. The priests are ensuring no unholy creature escapes."
Edric nodded, his face hardening with resolve. "Good. Make sure there are no survivors. Every corner must be searched, every creature found."
A group of soldiers pulled a terrified elf woman from her home, her child clinging to her side, tears streaming down her face. "Please, please don't hurt us!" she cried.
One of the soldiers hesitated, but his commander shouted, "No mercy! The King's orders are clear!" He raised his sword.
From the back of the crowd, a young priest raised his voice, chanting, "By the Lightbringer's grace, we purify this land!" His fellow priests echoed his words, their chants rising louder, more fervent.
The soldier hesitated no longer and brought his blade down. The woman screamed, a sound that pierced the air and sent a chill down the spine of even the hardened warriors.
A noblewoman from the duchy, Lady Astrid, watched with a mix of horror and fascination. She turned to Lord Montclair, who stood nearby, his face pale. "Is this truly necessary?" she whispered.
Montclair sneered, though his eyes betrayed his unease. "It is the King's will, Lady Astrid. Do not question it unless you wish to join them."
Astrid turned away, swallowing her fear. "It seems there is little choice."
As the purge continued, cries of terror and pain filled the air. The priests moved among the soldiers, chanting blessings and exhorting them to continue the holy work. The fires burned hotter, consuming homes, bodies, and any semblance of peace that had once existed in Valewood.
An elven man, his clothes torn and bloody, was dragged before a group of priests. He struggled, his eyes filled with defiance. "We have done nothing to you!" he shouted. "We only wish to live in peace!"
The head priest sneered, his eyes cold. "There can be no peace with your kind. The Lightbringer commands it. You are an abomination."
The elf spat at his feet. "Your god is a lie."
The priest's face twisted in rage. "Blasphemer!" he cried, raising his staff. "Burn him!"
Two soldiers grabbed the elf, dragging him toward a burning pyre. He struggled, his cries of defiance turning to screams of agony as the flames engulfed him.
From her hiding place, Lyralei clenched her fists, tears streaming down her face. "Monsters," she whispered. "They're all monsters."
Thalor placed a hand on her shoulder, his expression grim, his deep blue eyes reflecting the horrors before them. "We'll make them pay," he vowed. "Every one of them."
Grid, hidden beside them, growled low in his throat, his wiry, green-skinned frame trembling with rage. "For every goblin they killed, I will take a hundred of theirs."
As Noir and his companions watched the horrors unfold, a cold, hard truth settled over them: they were powerless. Against this army, this fanatical force driven by both zealotry and hatred, they were nothing.
Lyralei turned to Noir, her voice shaking with fury. "We can't let this happen. We have to fight!"
Noir's face was as cold as ever, his crimson eyes burning with an unreadable intensity, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or shame. "If we go in now, we die," he said, his tone flat but firm. "We cannot win this fight, not yet."
Thalor's voice trembled with rage, his normally calm demeanor cracking. "So we just leave? Let them slaughter everyone?"
Noir nodded, his expression hardening. "Yes. For now. We live to fight another day."
Grid's voice was thick with emotion, his usual energy subdued. "I'd rather die fighting..."
Noir turned on him sharply, his voice like ice. "And accomplish nothing? We need to be smart, Grid. This isn't a battle we can win today."
The four of them retreated into the shadows, slipping through the chaos and moving away from the burning city. The realization of their helplessness weighed heavily on them as they made their way out of Valewood. Each step felt like a betrayal, like they were abandoning those they had sworn to protect.
Lyralei wiped her tears with the back of her hand, trying to steady her breathing. "We should be doing more," she whispered, her voice tight with anguish. "We can't just leave them to die."
Thalor, still furious, gripped his bow tightly, his knuckles white. "I know," he muttered. "But Noir is right. We don't have the numbers or strength to face them head-on."
Grid's eyes were filled with a mix of frustration and sorrow. "If only I were stronger," he growled. "If only we all were..."
Noir walked ahead, his expression stoic, his eyes fixed forward. But inside, his thoughts churned, grappling with the same sense of inadequacy and fury. He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of their defeat pressing down on him.
As they moved deeper into the forest, putting distance between themselves and the conquered city, Noir finally spoke, his voice low and cold. "This isn't over," he said. "We will return. But not like this. Not when we're weak."
Lyralei looked up at him, her eyes still wet but filled with determination. "What do we do then?" she asked. "How do we fight back?"
Noir turned to face them, his expression hard but resolute. "We find allies," he replied. "We build our strength. We find a way to match their numbers and their fanaticism."
Thalor nodded, his face set with grim determination. "There are others who hate Edric and his zealots. Others who would fight beside us."
Grid grinned, though there was no humor in it. "And we'll make them regret ever crossing us," he promised. "For every life they took, we'll take ten."
Noir's gaze was fierce, his voice unwavering. "We will return," he repeated. "But on our terms. And when we do, Valewood will be free again."
With renewed purpose, they set out into the wilderness, knowing the path ahead would be long and dangerous. But for now, they had one thing that King Edric's army could not crush: their will to fight back, no matter the cost.
Noir and his companions continued through the dense forest, each step heavy with the weight of their defeat. The shadows seemed to press in around them, the distant sounds of the conquered city still echoing faintly in the distance. Every breath was filled with the scent of smoke and the bitterness of failure.
Within Noir's mind, the voices of Asmodeus and Takir began their familiar taunts.
"Look at you," Asmodeus sneered. "The great Noir, running from a fight. Did the mighty Grimreaper's blade suddenly grow too heavy for your hand?"
Takir's laughter rumbled through Noir's mind. "So much for the fearsome warrior," he taunted. "Your enemies laugh at you, Noir. You turned your back like a coward. You know what they'll say... that you were afraid."
Noir's crimson eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched tightly. He refused to respond, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. But their words stung, striking at the raw wound of his pride. He could feel the anger boiling inside him, a heat rising in his chest that he struggled to contain.
Lyralei glanced at Noir, sensing his tension. "Something wrong?" she asked, concern in her voice.
Noir did not answer, his face a mask of cold fury. His companions exchanged worried glances but remained silent, respecting his distance. They continued to walk, each lost in their own thoughts.
After a while, they heard a faint noise, a soft sobbing that seemed to come from deeper within the woods. Lyralei's ears twitched, and she stopped, holding up a hand to signal the others.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered, her sharp green eyes scanning the shadows.
Thalor nodded, his hand instinctively moving to his bow, his deep blue eyes narrowing. "Someone's close," he muttered, his voice calm but tense.
Grid sniffed the air, his sharp yellow eyes gleaming with mischief despite the situation. "Human," he growled softly, his wiry frame crouched low, his movements quick and eager. "Smells young."
They moved toward the sound, pushing through the thick undergrowth until they came upon a small grove. There, crouched against a tree, was a young boy, his clothes torn and dirt-streaked. He was crying, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, his face hidden in his hands.
Noir stepped forward, his expression cold and unreadable. "What's this?" he muttered, his crimson eyes narrowing as they locked onto the boy. "A child, here?"
Lyralei's face softened slightly when she recognized the boy. "That's... that's the young Duke of Valewood. Julian."
The boy looked up, startled, his tear-filled eyes meeting Noir's piercing crimson gaze. His face was pale and trembling, every bit the frightened child who had lost everything.
Noir's lip curled in disdain. "You're the duke?" he scoffed, his tone harsh. "The one who was supposed to lead his people? Pathetic."
Julian flinched, more tears spilling from his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He was too exhausted, too broken by what he had seen and what he had lost.
"What a sight," Asmodeus's voice laughed darkly in Noir's mind. "The little lordling, crying in the woods like a lost lamb."
Takir's voice joined in, filled with disdain. "And he reflects your own weakness, doesn't he? Unable to protect what he cares for, fleeing into the dark... just like you."
Noir's grip on the Grimreaper tightened. He took a step closer to Julian, his voice low and icy. "Look at you," he spat. "Crying like a helpless child while your people burn. Is this how a duke behaves?"
Julian's sobs quieted, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he stared up at Noir. His fear was beginning to turn into something else—confusion, shame... and perhaps a flicker of defiance.
"You're weak," Noir continued, his voice sharp as a blade. "Pathetic. You ran away, just like I did. But at least I had a reason. What's yours?"
Julian opened his mouth, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I don't know," he stammered. "I don't know what to do..."
Noir's expression twisted with disgust, his red eyes burning with an intensity that made the boy shrink. "You don't know? Your people are dead because of you, because you were too weak to protect them! And now you sit here, crying, instead of doing something about it!"
Julian's face flushed with anger and humiliation, his tear-filled eyes widening. "I—I'm just a boy!" he cried, his voice cracking with desperation. "I never asked for this! I never wanted to be duke! I never wanted any of this!"
Noir's cold, crimson gaze bore into Julian's. "Do you think anyone cares what you wanted?" he snarled. "Do you think the dead care? Do you think your people cared when they looked to you for leadership, and you failed them?"
Julian's breathing grew ragged, his hands trembling as his emotions spiraled out of control. His tears fell faster, but his gaze held Noir's, and in his eyes, a deeper emotion began to surface—anger.
"Stop crying," Noir ordered, his tone harsh and unrelenting. "If you want to survive, if you want to do anything, then stop crying and start fighting. Or do you plan to sit here until they find you and drag you back in chains?"
Julian's small body shook, but his eyes—now red and puffy—narrowed with a spark of defiance. He wiped his face with his sleeve, his lips pressing into a thin line as the weight of Noir's words sunk in.
"I... I want to be strong," he whispered, his voice raw. "I want... I want to avenge them. I want to make them pay..."
Noir's expression softened slightly, just for a moment. He saw something in the boy's face, something familiar—a reflection of his own pain, his own desire for revenge.
"Good," Noir murmured, his voice low and almost approving. "Use that anger. Let it drive you. But know this... strength is not something you can wish for. You have to earn it. You have to fight for it. Are you willing to do that?"
Julian nodded, more to himself than to anyone else. "Yes," he whispered, the word barely audible at first. "Yes... I will."
Noir watched him closely, his gaze intense, searching for any sign of weakness. "Then prove it," he said, his tone sharp. "Prove that you have the will to survive, to fight back. Or die like the rest of them."
The boy's eyes flickered with newfound determination. He stood slowly, his legs still shaking, but his posture straighter, more resolute. He wiped his tears away with a dirty hand, his jaw set firm.
"I... I will," he repeated, louder this time. "I will become strong... and I will make them pay."
Noir's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Good," he said softly. "We'll see."
The forest seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with tension and the promise of something new—a resolve forged in the fires of anger and the desire for revenge. As Julian stood there, trembling but resolute, a cold wind swept through the trees, carrying with it the whispers of the past and the uncertain future.
The companions watched in silence, sensing a shift in the air but unaware of the internal battle raging within Noir. There was no going back now.