The air inside the town hall felt heavier now, thick with the weight of unspoken words and veiled threats. Adrian could hear the faint crackle of the hearthfire behind Gregor von Darnath, its dim light casting long, jagged shadows across the wooden walls. The man before him, the supposed heir to a dead house, had just issued an ultimatum masked as an invitation.
Join us, or suffer the consequences.
Adrian had heard such words before—from warlords, from desperate nobles, from men who believed they were destined to reclaim what had been taken from them. He had seen the consequences of men who grasped at faded glories, and it had never ended without blood.
For a moment, Gregor merely studied him, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden table between them. Then, with a slow exhale, he reached for his goblet again.
"You are, of course, free to refuse," Gregor said smoothly, taking a slow sip. "But that choice has… ramifications."
Adrian did not move. "I imagine it does."
Gregor smirked. "You understand, then." He set the goblet down, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet hall. "This town is already under our hand. Its people? Frightened. Its defenders? Outnumbered. And you? A lone lord of a crumbling duchy, bound by old loyalties to men who will never march for you. What future do you see here, Adrian von Rabenfeld?"
Otto, standing rigid at Adrian's side, finally broke his silence. "One without your kind in it."
Gregor chuckled. "Ah, the ever-loyal knight. But loyalty does not build empires, nor does it keep people safe." His gaze flicked back to Adrian. "You see it, don't you? The weakness. The decay." He leaned forward, voice dropping lower. "Hohenwald is but a single example of the duchy's neglect. And soon, this town will not be the only one in need of protection."
Adrian held his ground. He knew what Gregor was doing—spinning a narrative, planting doubts, testing for weaknesses. But he would not waver.
"Your men will leave this town," Adrian said, his voice calm but firm. "Or they will be driven from it."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Gregor's face. "Ah. So you do mean to fight."
"I mean to defend these people from parasites who pretend at nobility," Adrian replied.
Silence settled between them. The only sound was the faint creak of wood as the fire burned lower.
Then Gregor exhaled, as if truly disappointed. "A shame," he said again, shaking his head. "I had hoped you would see reason."
He rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. "Very well, Lord Rabenfeld. If you will not stand beside us, then we will see if you can stand against us."
Adrian did not give him the satisfaction of a reply. He turned on his heel, Otto and Klaus following close behind as they strode out of the hall.
The moment the doors shut behind them, Klaus cursed under his breath. "We should've put a blade in his throat right then and there."
"No," Adrian said. "Not yet."
Klaus scowled. "Why not? He's already made his move. He won't leave now. He's testing us, seeing how we react. What more do we need to know?"
Adrian's eyes were fixed on the darkened town square ahead, where the torches of Gregor's men still burned at the edges of the streets. "We need to be ready. This fight won't be won in a single moment."
Otto nodded grimly. "They have the numbers. And if someone in the town did let them in, we can't trust everyone here."
Adrian exhaled sharply. "We prepare. Tonight."
They had work to do.
Back at the fortified manor that had become their command post, Adrian and his men wasted no time. The great hall had become a war room, with maps and reports scattered across a long wooden table. Ewald was there, pacing anxiously, his face drawn with worry.
"This is madness," the old mayor muttered. "We can't fight them. They control the streets, the supplies—"
"And if we do nothing?" Adrian cut in. "They will solidify their hold. And when they are ready, they will bleed this town dry."
Ewald looked away, jaw tight. He knew Adrian was right.
"We need to rally what fighters we have," Otto said. "The town militia, any willing men. We don't need to win outright—we just need to drive them out."
"And we need to do it before Gregor calls for reinforcements," Adrian added.
A silence settled over the room. Then Ewald sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "I can speak with some of the townsfolk. There are still those who remember what happened the last time men like him came to power."
Adrian nodded. "Do it."
As Ewald left, Adrian turned to his men. "We set up patrols. We keep eyes on every street, every movement they make. And if they strike first, we're ready."
The room was filled with a sense of purpose now. There was no turning back.
Night settled over Hohenwald, cold and unforgiving. Adrian stood at the edge of the manor's stone balcony, looking out over the town. Below, his soldiers moved quietly through the streets, their armor muffled, their weapons ready.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Then, a scream.
Adrian's head snapped toward the sound.
Then the bells began to ring.
The first attack had begun.
The bell tolled through the night, a jagged sound that cut through the still air like a blade. It was not a warning—it was a declaration. The attack had begun.
Adrian moved swiftly, descending the stone steps two at a time as he stepped out into the courtyard. Soldiers were already forming up, gripping their weapons with a mix of discipline and tension. Torchlight flickered across the manor's walls, casting long shadows over the assembled men.
Otto was the first to reach him. His face was set, but there was no panic in his voice. "Scouts report movement near the eastern gate. At least two dozen of Gregor's men, more filtering in from the side streets. Looks like they're testing us before committing to a full attack."
Adrian's mind worked quickly. Gregor wouldn't waste his best fighters on an opening skirmish—not yet. No, this was a probe, meant to draw them out, to test their response. If they rushed into battle without thinking, they'd be walking straight into a trap.
"Hold the main force here," Adrian ordered. "Keep a defensive line at the manor and the central square. If they expect us to charge, we're not giving them that fight."
Otto gave a firm nod. "And the eastern gate?"
Adrian turned to Klaus. "Take twenty men, skirmishers and archers. Harass them, but don't get drawn into a full fight. We make them think we're weaker than we are. Let them push, then pull them into an ambush."
Klaus grinned, already tightening the straps on his bracers. "Now that's more like it."
Within moments, the courtyard was a flurry of movement as orders were relayed. Adrian could hear the distant clash of steel, the sporadic cries echoing from the eastern quarter. The enemy was advancing.
Taking a deep breath, Adrian stepped forward, his grip tightening on his sword. The fight for Hohenwald had begun.
Klaus moved like a shadow through the narrow streets, his men fanning out behind him. They had chosen their ground well—an old, half-collapsed granary near the eastern gate, with narrow alleys on either side. It was the perfect place to funnel Gregor's men into a confined kill zone.
The enemy approached, their forms barely visible in the darkness. A dozen at first, then more, their torchlight bobbing as they advanced. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man in a red cloak, raised a hand to signal a halt.
Klaus crouched behind a broken barrel, waiting, his breath slow and steady. Timing was everything.
The red-cloaked leader stepped forward, scanning the area. "No resistance? Either they've fled, or they're hiding like rats."
Klaus smiled grimly.
The man took another step. Then another.
Klaus waited until he was within range—then he whistled.
A hail of arrows rained down from above, striking into the enemy ranks. Screams filled the air as men crumpled, some clutching at their throats, others slumping against the stone walls. Chaos erupted as Gregor's soldiers scrambled for cover.
"Now!" Klaus bellowed, leaping from his hiding spot.
His men surged forward, blades flashing in the firelight. The confined space worked to their advantage—Gregor's men had no room to maneuver. Steel met flesh, and the air was thick with the scent of blood and burning wood.
Klaus parried a wild swing from a desperate soldier, driving his blade through the man's gut in a single, practiced motion. Another came at him, but before the attacker could strike, an arrow took him in the eye, dropping him instantly.
It was over in minutes. The survivors fled into the darkness, leaving their dead behind. Klaus wiped his blade on the tunic of a fallen foe, exhaling sharply.
"That'll make them think twice," he muttered.
Adrian stood at the center of the town square, his men forming a tight defensive ring around the manor. The first attack had been repelled, but more would come.
A messenger ran up, breathless. "Gregor's forces are pulling back from the eastern gate, but we saw reinforcements moving in from the west."
Adrian cursed under his breath. "How many?"
"Hard to say. Could be another small force, could be a feint."
"Or a distraction," Otto said grimly.
Adrian nodded. "We stay in formation. If they commit to a real attack, we hold. If they overextend, we break them."
The town was eerily silent now, the only sounds the distant crackling of torches and the occasional moan of the wounded. The anticipation was worse than the battle itself—waiting for the next move, knowing that somewhere in the darkness, Gregor was watching, planning his next strike.
Then, in the distance, the sound of marching boots.
Adrian turned, his grip tightening on his sword. The real battle was about to begin.