At the outskirts of Rothrosia, the kingdom's towering gates loomed ahead, the grand entrance to the bustling heart of the realm.

A diverse crowd stretched along the road, waiting to be inspected before stepping foot into the city proper. Travelers, merchants, and wanderers of all kinds stood in line, chatting in hushed tones. Young and old, foreign and familiar, they converged here, eager to pass through the iron-clad gateway. Some returned from nearby lands, while others sought new opportunities within the kingdom's walls.

Overseeing this scene with a sense of undeniable pride was a single knight. It was Sir Francis the Brave.

He stood tall, his armor polished to a gleaming shine, reflecting the afternoon sun. His dark hair was cropped short, neat and disciplined, framing a face that was both determined and sharp. His eyes, glistening like onyx, surveyed the crowd with quiet authority. His fair skin hinted at long days in the sun, yet maintained a regal air. Beneath the metal, his athletic, muscular frame gave him a commanding presence, and beside him stood his loyal subordinates, ever ready to follow his lead.

Suddenly, an argument broke out within the crowd.

"No, you can't bring that in here," one of Sir Francis' subordinates said, his tone firm as he blocked the path of a lone trader.

In front of him stood an old man, a lone trader, weathered from long journeys, clutching a peculiar item tightly to his chest.

"But it's just one item!" the trader pleaded, his voice hoarse.

"Surely you can excuse an old merchant who's journeyed far, weary and tired," he said.

The guard, unmoved by the appeal, crossed his arms. "Rules are rules. No exceptions. You can't bring that in, no matter what."

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd, and the tension began to rise. The trader's persistent protests, though meek, were enough to cause a small commotion, catching the attention of Sir Francis himself.

He sighed heavily, his patience thinning.

"What in the Gods' names is going on now?" he muttered under his breath, striding over to investigate. As he approached, the growing impatience of the crowd made itself known.

"Come on already!" someone grumbled from the back.

"Hurry it up, old man!" another shouted, causing a ripple of frustration to course through the line.

Sir Francis, with his ever-present sense of duty, knew he couldn't let this escalate. The last thing he needed was a riot at the gates of Rothrosia. And if there was one thing worse than paperwork, it was paperwork caused by a brawl. He cleared his throat and stepped into the fray, his voice carrying over the rising din.

"What is all this commotion about?" Sir Francis demanded, his brow furrowing as he approached, his voice carrying the weight of authority. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and irritation, as though he couldn't believe such a scene was unfolding under his watch.

"Sir!" His subordinate snapped to attention, standing rigidly before Sir Francis, their body turned respectfully toward him. "This man," the guard explained, gesturing to the old trader, "is attempting to carry illegal liquor from the neighboring kingdom without proper licensing." His voice was calm but firm, as though he had rehearsed the line many times before.

Sir Francis narrowed his eyes. "Let me see it. Hand it over," he commanded, extending his hand toward the old man.

The trader, now realizing he had no escape, flashed a sheepish smile. "Ah, it's just a little something I picked up—a souvenir, you see, from an old acquaintance," he explained, holding the bottle as if it were a delicate treasure. "I'd never dream of selling it!" His smile widened, showing off a set of yellowed teeth, as his face contorted into an almost pitiful expression, hoping to charm his way out of trouble.

For a moment, his eyebrows danced suggestively, as if hinting at something unspoken—a bribe, perhaps? Or was he simply relying on his frail, elderly status to appeal to the knight's mercy?

But Sir Francis did not budge. His face remained impassive, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. His dark eyes glinted, unimpressed by the trader's attempts at persuasion. Standing tall, his imposing figure towered over the small, wiry man before him. His very posture spoke volumes: here was a knight who followed the law to the letter, no matter how clever or desperate the excuse.

Sir Francis crouched down, leaning in close to the old merchant, his armored frame casting a shadow over the smaller man. His face hovered just inches from the trader's ear, who now stood rigid, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. Nervous and uneasy, the merchant gulped, his breath hitching as he awaited the knight's judgment.

With agonizing slowness, Sir Francis leaned in further, and in a barely audible whisper, muttered a single word,

"No."

The simple response seemed to echo in the trader's mind, carrying the weight of finality. As Sir Francis straightened back up, his subordinates moved swiftly to inspect the merchant's carriage. It wasn't long before one of them lifted a heavy tarp, revealing what they had all suspected—a dozen bottles of illegal liquor, tucked neatly among the other goods.

"Now, now… what do we have here?" Sir Francis said, his tone light and playful as he flashed the merchant a grin that was anything but friendly.

The merchant's smile wavered, a weak attempt at salvaging the situation. "Ah, well… you see, I have a lot of relatives," he stammered, his voice cracking under the pressure.

"All of these—gifts from them!" His grin stretched unnaturally wide, though his sweaty, pale face betrayed his nervousness.

Sir Francis' eyes twinkled with amusement, but his voice remained stern. "Confiscate all the liquor. And check the rest of the goods—thoroughly—for any other contraband."

His subordinates jumped into action, and Sir Francis turned his attention back to the trader, whose hope was now slipping through his fingers. "You, sir," he said, his voice calm but unyielding, "are in a lot of trouble."

The merchant's face fell, his smile long gone. His eyes widened in shock, but deep down, he knew there was no escape. With a resigned sigh, he lowered his head, accepting his fate. There would be no further argument, no more excuses. His journey, it seemed, had come to an unfortunate end.

And with that, the crowd watched as the once-smiling trader was led away, his goods seized and his reputation shattered.

As Sir Francis made his way back to his post, his focus was interrupted by a familiar voice from the crowd.

"Sir Francis saves the day again!" called out a younger merchant, his tone light and teasing. He grinned sheepishly, clearly amused by the scene that had just unfolded.

Sir Francis turned toward him, a faint scowl of annoyance crossing his features.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be right now?" he replied, his voice clipped, though there was no real bite to it.

The merchant laughed softly. "Just finishing up unloading my goods. You know me—I do my job delicately and, of course, legally." His grin widened as he winked, clearly enjoying his little jab.

Sir Francis sighed, his stern demeanor softening slightly. He knew this merchant well—Louis. The man was a cheerful soul, always full of jokes, and someone Sir Francis had come to rely on for company during quieter times. They'd shared more than a few drinks together at the local tavern. Louis was in his thirties, just like Sir Francis, and though he could be a bit of a joker, he was trustworthy.

"New subordinates, I see?" Louis remarked, his eyes darting toward the guards bustling behind Sir Francis.

"Not enough," Sir Francis replied with a measured tone, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of his concern. "This kingdom needs more if it wants to protect its interests. We never know when something might go wrong. We need to always be prepared."

Louis nodded, his usual playful expression fading for a moment. Though he was pouting slightly, it was more for show than anything. He understood the gravity of Sir Francis' words, even if he wasn't the type to dwell on serious matters. "Yeah, you right about that," he muttered, his tone light but respectful.

For a moment, they stood there, two men with vastly different roles in Rothrosia but bound by an odd friendship. Louis, the carefree merchant, and Sir Francis, the ever-vigilant knight. Different as they were, they understood each other well enough.

"Well, don't work too hard," Louis said with a wink, his cheerful grin back in place. "I'll see you later at the tavern, yeah?"

Sir Francis simply shook his head with a small smile, already dreading whatever nonsense Louis would get him into that evening.

High above the clouds, unseen by the folk below, five witches flew in formation like a sinister flock of crows. Their gnarled figures matched the eerie image of legends, much like the haggard witch riding her broomstick, clad in tattered black robes that fluttered against the wind. Their hooked noses jutted out sharply beneath crooked hats, and their twisted mouths curled into wide, wicked grins as they glided forward with unnerving purpose.

The witches' eyes gleamed with a dark hunger, their skeletal hands gripping the bristles of their broomsticks as they soared through the sky with the grace of predators.

Together, they flew in unison, much like a gang of unruly bikers, weaving through the thick clouds, their laughter mingling with the wind. Below them, the kingdom of Rothrosia stretched out in peaceful oblivion, unaware of the danger hurtling toward them from the skies.

Their target was clear—the grand castle of Rothrosia, nestled in the heart of the main city. It loomed ahead like a beacon, calling to them. They could already picture the chaos they would unleash, the terror they would sow among the unsuspecting folk. The mere thought of it made their grins stretch even wider.

On the ground, just outside the city gate, the people remained blissfully ignorant of the approaching danger. Travelers, traders, and locals went about their business, unaware that high above them, just a few hundred meters in the sky, dark forces were preparing to descend.

Sir Francis, however, felt something. A shiver crawled up his spine, and a faint sense of unease washed over him. He grunted softly under his breath, barely audible, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"Ugh," he muttered to himself, trying to shake off the strange feeling.

But he dismissed it quickly, attributing it to a long day of standing watch. There was no reason for alarm, or so he thought.

He turned back to his duties, unaware that in mere moments, his fate—and the fate of all of Rothrosia—would change forever.