The sun had barely risen when Marcus set off, the morning mist casting an eerie glow across the plains. Hoofprints marked the muddy path before him, their fresh indentations a clear trail toward the unknown raiders. His gaze was steely, his grip on the reins firm as he rode through the sparse woodland and open fields, his senses attuned to every shadow and sound. Marcus was no stranger to pursuit, but something about this trail felt different. There was a sense of malice lingering in the air, a foreboding that even his war-hardened instincts couldn't ignore.
He had received word of the raid just the night before: a small village, little more than a cluster of huts and market stalls, but one that lay uncomfortably close to where sightings of otherworldly creatures had grown more frequent. It wasn't just a matter of raiders this time; it was a matter of preventing whatever strange alliance was brewing from taking root.
Hours passed as Marcus followed the trail, finally leading him to the base of a low, rocky hill. The sight that greeted him as he approached the ridge brought him up short. A makeshift camp sprawled along the hill's summit, tents and shelters clustered together under a tattered flag flapping in the breeze. But it wasn't the size or disarray of the camp that caught his attention—it was the unmistakable insignia emblazoned on the flag, the black rose with twisting thorns.
The Von Schwarzenwald crest.
The sight of it turned Marcus's confusion into cold fury. He urged his horse forward, scanning the camp as he approached. As soon as the guards caught sight of the insignia on Marcus's armor, they scrambled to their feet, recognition dawning on their faces. The head of the camp—a rugged-looking man with a patchwork of scars crossing his face—hurried forward, bowing low in an awkward attempt at deference.
"Lord Marcus," he stammered, his voice betraying a mixture of fear and awe. "We…we didn't expect anyone from the family estates so soon."
Marcus dismounted, his gaze like ice. "Explain yourself. Now."
The man shifted nervously, glancing back at the camp before meeting Marcus's eyes. "It's… it's not what it seems, my lord. We are only here to take shelter. These lands are perilous, and we meant no disrespect by using the family's banner."
"Using the family's banner?" Marcus's voice was low, deadly. "You dare raid villages under our name?"
The scarred man squirmed under Marcus's glare, the weight of his mistake visibly bearing down on him. "My lord," he began, voice trembling, "we are not… not raiders. Our supplies ran low, and the people of that village… they refused to share. We meant only to—"
"Silence." Marcus's tone was harsh, cutting through the air like a blade. He could feel the lies in the man's excuses, could see the truth in the guilty glances exchanged by the camp's inhabitants, each one avoiding his gaze. "You meant only to take what was not yours," he said, advancing a step, his armor glinting under the faint morning light. "You dishonor this insignia."
The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to his fellow campmates, who stood frozen, fearful of the Von Schwarzenwald heir before them. "We didn't… that is, we thought—"
"You thought you could act with impunity under our name," Marcus finished for him, his voice carrying a quiet fury. "Who permitted you to use this crest? To claim our name?"
The man hesitated, then dropped to his knees, his head bowed. "Forgive us, Lord Marcus," he whispered. "We had no choice. The otherworldly creatures have been pressing us from all sides. We needed supplies, shelter, protection…" His voice trailed off, and he lowered his head further, as if shielding himself from Marcus's gaze.
A cold sneer twisted Marcus's lips. "And so you turned to raiding? Do you think that is how the Von Schwarzenwald family achieves power? By preying on the helpless?"
The camp leader's head snapped up, his eyes wide with desperation. "No, my lord! We only thought that… under the family's banner, we could protect ourselves. The creatures that roam these lands—they do not fear ordinary men."
For a moment, Marcus held his silence, his gaze sweeping across the camp. Women and children huddled in makeshift shelters, their faces gaunt and fearful, while a handful of able-bodied men lingered by the fires, their weapons poorly concealed. It was a pitiful sight, a gathering of those left behind or forgotten, clinging to the symbol of his family like a lifeline. And though Marcus's heart was hardened by years under his father's harsh rule, he felt a spark of pity for these refugees, caught between their own desperation and the relentless threat of otherworldly forces.
But pity would not erase their crime.
"You will return the supplies you stole," he said at last, his voice calm but unyielding. "And you will dismantles this camp by nightfall. Anyone bearing our insignia without permission forfeits any right to the protection it offers."
The camp leader looked up, panic flashing in his eyes. "But my lord—"
"No," Marcus cut him off. "Your actions have brought dishonor to our name. Be grateful that I am merciful enough to let you go."
The camp leader's shoulders sagged, and he bowed low, murmuring words of thanks. "We will do as you command, Lord Marcus."
Turning, Marcus scanned the horizon, his mind already moving beyond the scene before him. He had a mission to fulfill, and this interruption—this sordid display of weakness—had delayed him long enough. But as he mounted his horse, a faint movement on the edge of the camp caught his attention.
A young boy, perhaps no older than twelve, stood watching him, half-hidden behind a tattered tent. His clothes were threadbare, his face smeared with dirt, but his eyes were fierce, filled with a mixture of defiance and awe. Marcus met the boy's gaze, and for a brief moment, he saw a reflection of himself—a boy yearning for strength, for power, for a place in a world that offered little mercy.
Without a word, Marcus turned his horse and rode away, leaving the camp and its broken remnants behind him.
---
As Marcus continued his journey southward, the terrain grew more rugged, the skies darkening with the approach of evening. He kept his focus on the trail, the hoofprints leading him deeper into the shadowed valley that lay just beyond the next ridge. The reports of otherworldly creatures growing bolder in the region were never far from his mind, and he kept one hand close to the hilt of his sword.
An hour later, he caught sight of his destination—a small village nestled at the edge of the valley, its buildings little more than a handful of cottages and a communal hall. But as he approached, his heart sank. The village was eerily quiet, its doors closed, windows shuttered. No lights flickered in the windows, and the air carried a heavy silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind through the trees.
Marcus dismounted, tying his horse to a post, and drew his sword, the familiar weight of the blade a comfort against the unknown. He advanced slowly, his senses on high alert, every shadow a potential threat.
He reached the center of the village, where the hoofprints he'd been following finally ended, their trail mingling with a series of heavy, clawed marks in the dirt. He crouched down, examining the tracks closely. These were no ordinary animals—each claw mark was deep, as though the creature had weighed far more than any natural beast. And the sheer number of prints suggested more than one of them.
A flash of movement caught his eye, and he spun around, raising his sword just as a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a woman, her face pale and streaked with dirt, her eyes wide with fear.
"Please… help us," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "They came at night… creatures from beyond… they took everything…"
Marcus approached her, keeping his sword lowered but at the ready. "Where did they go?" he asked, his voice firm.
The woman pointed toward the far edge of the village, where the forest loomed dark and foreboding. "Into the woods. They come every few nights, taking what they want. We… we tried to defend ourselves, but they were too strong."
Marcus's jaw clenched, fury simmering beneath the surface. He had no patience for cowards or thieves, but this was different—these were people terrorized, worn down by creatures that had no place in this world. And as the heir of Von Schwarzenwald, it was his duty to protect the people under his family's rule.
"Take shelter," he said to the woman, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll deal with them."
She nodded, her gaze lingering on him as though he were some figure from a legend, before she disappeared into one of the cottages, the door closing softly behind her.
With a final glance toward the village, Marcus set his jaw and turned toward the forest, his sword gleaming in the fading light. He had seen many horrors in his life, faced creatures that most would deem nightmares—but he was a Von Schwarzenwald, and no mere beast would deter him from his path.
The woods swallowed him whole, the trees pressing close as he ventured deeper into the shadows, following the faint, unnatural marks in the earth. The scent of decay filled the air, mingling with the quiet sounds of movement just beyond his sight. Marcus gripped his sword tightly, his every sense honed, alert for the slightest hint of danger.
Then, a low growl echoed through the trees, and a pair of eyes—burning, crimson-red—appeared in the darkness, followed by another, and another, until the forest seemed alive with the monstrous gaze of the otherworldly creatures.
Marcus raised his sword, his voice calm but fierce. "Come then," he called into the darkness. "Face me, if you dare."
The first creature lunged forward, and Marcus moved to meet it, his blade flashing through the shadows. His movements were swift, precise, a deadly dance honed through years of training and battle. The creature fell, but more surged forward, their forms twisting and unnatural, clawed limbs reaching for him.
For a heartbeat, Marcus felt the weight of them pressing down, the darkness closing in—but he fought on, each strike of his sword cutting through the horde with relentless precision. His mind was clear, his purpose unwavering. These creatures were trespassers, threats to his people, and he would not allow them to ravage his lands any longer.
As the last creature fell, its body dissipating into a cloud of dark mist, Marcus lowered his sword, breathing heavily. The forest was silent once more, the crimson eyes vanished into the shadows. But as he looked around, he knew this was only the beginning. The otherworldly beings were growing bolder, their incursions more frequent—and the Von Schwarzenwald family's hold on their lands would be tested like never before.
With a final glance into the darkness, Marcus turned and made his way back to the village, his mind already racing with the preparations that would be needed to protect the borders.