Previously~
Edward's laughter slowed to a sly chuckle
. "Hey, King… is your palace a farm?" he tilted his head toward Donald. "Because I could've sworn I heard a pig squeal."
"You bastard!"
Donald snarled, his nostrils flaring.
WHAM!
Donald lunged. His blade howled through the air
.
VSHOOM!
But Edward was gone—vanishing just before the steel could taste blood, wind whipping in his wake.
—------------------------------------------------------
The force of Donald's swing carried him forward, boots skidding on the polished stone. He whirled around, teeth bared, eyes searching—
CLINK.
A boot tapped the back of his sword.
Donald froze. Cold sweat trickled down his spine.
Behind him, Edward stood casually, one hand gripping the spear behind his back, the other pushing back his black hair.
"Easy now," Edward murmured, voice like velvet over a dagger. "You're too loud to catch ghosts, you pig."
Donald spun again, faster this time.
KRAK!
His sword met Edward's spear. Sparks danced like fireflies, lighting up their snarling faces.
"You think you're better than me?" Donald hissed, eyes wild.
Edward leaned close, his breath cool, eyes cold.
"No," he whispered. "I know I am."
Their clash echoed through the hall, steel crying out in fury. Edward weaved and danced, a storm wrapped in silk, while Donald drove forward with brute strength, fury lashing out in every strike.
Somewhere above, a chandelier trembled.
Somewhere below, servants held their breath.
WHAM!
Donald's lunge was wild, furious—born of anger, not form. His broadsword howled as it split the air, aiming to cleave Edward in half.
VSHOOM!
But Edward was already gone, a blur of motion. His boots barely touched the polished stone as he slid sideways, coat flaring like a cape. The strike missed by inches, crashing into the marble floor with a crack that echoed across the chamber.
"You swing like a drunk in a thunderstorm," Edward called over his shoulder, spinning on his heel.
Donald's teeth clenched. He turned with a snarl and rushed again, this time keeping his guard tighter. His sword rose high—
CLANG!
Edward met it with his own blade—shorter, sleeker, forged for speed. Sparks flew. The clash reverberated through both of them, but Edward absorbed it like water absorbs wind, letting the force slide through his stance instead of resisting it.
Step. Twist. Elbow. Riposte.
Edward moved like a dancer, sliding inside Donald's guard, elbow clipping the larger man's chest before—
CLANG!
Donald blocked again, barely in time, their blades locked.
Their faces were inches apart.
Donald's breath was hot. Sweat streamed from his brow. Edward, by contrast, wore that infuriating grin.
"You're slowing down, pig."
Donald growled and shoved—raw brute strength forcing Edward backward. He stumbled, skidded on the marble—
SHING!
Donald's sword lunged forward again. Edward dropped low. The blade passed just above his head as he swept Donald's leg.
THUD!
Donald staggered, but didn't fall. He twisted mid-lurch and retaliated with a two-handed overhead swing.
BOOM!
Edward barely managed to roll to the side as the sword struck the floor, cracking tiles and throwing up dust.
Their blades met again—fast now. Furious.
Strike. Parry. Feint. Block. Thrust.
The hall was alive with motion. Each blow was a sentence in a brutal argument. Every dodge a word unsaid. The clatter of steel and the scrape of boots echoed beneath the high arches and stained-glass windows.
Donald aimed high—Edward ducked.
Donald feinted low—Edward didn't fall for it.
Donald roared and brought his full weight down—
Edward caught it, their weapons locked.
But this time, Edward leaned in.
"You're strong, Donald. But strength doesn't win wars."
CRACK!
With a sudden twist, Edward knocked Donald's blade aside, spinning behind him.
His spear kissed the back of the man's neck. Just the edge.
Donald froze.
Panting.
Sweating.
Growling.
A thin red line appeared.
Edward didn't press.
He just whispered, "You lost the moment you lost your temper."
Donald lay on the floor, immobilized, his body still as a stone. Edward glanced down at the stout king, noting the unmistakable bald spot at the crown of his head—like a hole punched into a patch of stubborn weeds. It gleamed with sweat, pale and stark against his flushed face, much like the moon hanging in the night sky.
"Jack Ardellia! Was this your grand plan?" Edward's spear tip hovered just inches from Donald's neck.
Jack stumbled backward, realizing far too late the extent of his miscalculation. His ignorance had led him here—and now, he had to pay the price.
"Kalem, bring his family." Edward's tone was sharp and commanding."Respectfully."
Sir Kalem bowed, wordlessly leaving the room to fetch the royal family. The soldiers, standing at attention, waited in tense silence.
A few minutes passed before Sir Kalem returned, walking solemnly behind him—Queen Ardellia, her expression pale, followed by the prince and princess. They entered the chamber, their presence adding weight to the air.
"Queen Ardellia," Edward began, his voice carrying the grim weight of accusation. "Your husband, the king, has been caught preparing for rebellion."
The queen's face drained of color, and she bowed, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Her knees trembled, and she sank slowly to the floor, her lips quivering as she spoke.
"Please... forgive us. We shall repent for our crimes."
Edward motioned to Sir Kalem, who stepped forward and retrieved a set of handcuffs from his belt. The clinking sound echoed in the tense room.
"It depends on the Emperor," Edward said coldly. "Whether he plunges your kingdom into ruin or gives you a chance to swear loyalty again."
The queen's face softened with a glimmer of relief, her breath catching in her chest.
"But," Edward's voice cut through the moment, chilling her to the core. "The king will no longer be able to rule."
Jack's face twisted with confusion, his gaze darting between Edward and the queen.
"What?" he sputtered, his voice weak.
"Shut up!" Edward roared, his fury erupting in a storm of authority.
The room fell silent, the tension palpable.
Location- Ravenshade Keep, Duskrane County
Date- 5th, Month of Zephyris, 2012 A.G.
The soldiers trudged forward, their weary bodies shuffling through the thick fog that clung to the damp earth like a suffocating veil. Their clothes were tattered, and their faces gaunt from the terror they had narrowly escaped—the Pale Maw, that ancient leviathan, its presence lingering in their bones like a heavy curse. The memory of its dark, monstrous form beneath the black waters of Duskmirror Lake still haunted them. The silence it left in its wake was unbearable, its invisible weight pressing down on their chests.
As they approached the gates of Ravenshade Keep, the fortress loomed like a specter, its jagged stone walls rising up from the mist, ancient and menacing. Its silhouette was barely visible against the twilight sky, casting long, twisted shadows over the soldiers. The air grew colder as they neared, a sharp bite to it that seemed to carry the stench of decay.
The old doors of the keep, once grand but now cracked and rotting, stood before them like the maw of some great beast, daring them to enter. The iron hinges creaked under the strain as the soldiers pushed them open, the sound echoing through the courtyard like a funeral bell tolling in the distance. The air inside was thick with dust, and a suffocating stillness hung in the chambers, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
As the soldiers filed in, their boots echoed across the stone floor, each step a reminder of the heavy weight they carried—not just from their battle with the Pale Maw, but from the unspoken dread that this place invoked. The keep had once been a fortress of strength, but now it felt like a tomb—a relic of a time long past, forsaken by both man and god.
The flickering light from their torches cast erratic shadows along the crumbling walls, dancing like ghosts. The air seemed to grow denser with every step, suffocating in its oppressive quiet. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their exhaustion already taking hold, but the fear in their eyes was undeniable. The weight of the keep, its history, and the unknown horrors it might harbor were too much to ignore.
"Keep moving," the Lord Marshal's voice was a hoarse whisper, his own fear masked by the command. "We've come this far. We can't turn back now."
But even his voice seemed too loud, too bold in a place where silence seemed to hang like a shroud, waiting to swallow them whole.
The shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls, as if they were alive, following their every move. The distant sound of dripping water echoed through the halls, but no one could locate its source. The keep was a labyrinth of rooms and corridors, each more oppressive than the last. The stone beneath their feet felt cold, colder than the night air outside.
They reached the heart of the keep, an enormous, vaulted chamber that felt like the belly of a beast. The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the remnants of old banners swayed in the draft, their once-vibrant colors now faded to ghostly hues. Above them, the ceiling loomed impossibly high, draped in shadows that seemed to reach down, threatening to swallow them whole.
The soldiers could feel the weight of history pressing in on them, the long-dead eyes of forgotten kings and generals watching from the crumbling statues that lined the walls. It was as if the keep itself was alive, its every creak and groan a whisper from the past—warning them, beckoning them, as if it knew their fate was sealed.
Some of the soldiers shuddered, their grip on their weapons tightening, but no one dared to speak. No one dared to break the silence. For in this forsaken place, they weren't just marching into a fortress—they were marching toward their doom.
The air in Ravenshade Keep grew thicker with every passing moment. The Templars, though battle-hardened, could feel the oppressive weight of the fortress closing in around them, the shadows deepening with each step. The last remnants of their strength were being drained away, as if the keep itself were alive—feeding off their fear, their fatigue. They had lost more than half their number navigating the treacherous halls, falling victim to traps that seemed to come from nowhere.
The soldiers whispered of unseen hands that tripped their comrades, of spikes that shot out from the walls without warning, and of floors that caved in beneath their feet, sending soldiers to their doom below. Of the 1,500 Templars who had entered, only 960 remained, divided in different parts of the fortress, their steps faltering as they approached the heart of the keep.
As one squad reached a great hall, the stone doors groaned open, revealing a vast expanse of shadow. The torches flickered, casting elongated shapes across the walls that seemed to move on their own. The silence was deafening, and yet, they could feel eyes on them—watching from the corners, from the dark recesses of the room.
Suddenly, from the shadows, a whisper broke the stillness.
"They are here."
The Templars drew their weapons in unison, their armor clinking like a chorus of death. They formed a tight circle, weapons at the ready, but the air felt colder still. Then, as if the shadows themselves had come alive, figures began to emerge from the darkness.
The Shadows.
Clad in nothing but black cloaks that seemed to swallow the light around them, their eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger. Their faces were hidden beneath hoods, but the coldness in their movements, the calculated precision of their steps, made it clear: these were no mere thieves or bandits. These were assassins, mercenaries forged in the depths of Duskrane County.
One of the Templars lunged forward, his sword slashing through the air. But the shadow danced aside, moving with unnatural speed. The Templar's blade met only air, and the figure responded with a strike to his ribs—fast, deadly, and without mercy. The Templar collapsed to the ground with a sharp, gurgling breath.
"Fall back!" shouted Christian Classon, the Lord Marshal of the Templars, his voice cutting through the chaos. But it was already too late.
The Shadows swarmed from all sides, attacking with precision and brutal speed. They moved like ghosts—there one moment, gone the next. A Templar tried to strike one down, but his sword passed through the figure like a wisp of smoke. Another Templar tried to block a blow, but the shadow's dagger found its mark, puncturing his throat with the speed of a snake's strike.
The Templars fought back valiantly, but they were losing ground. Their movements were heavy from exhaustion, their swords slow and sluggish against the lethal precision of the Shadows. Christian himself was locked in a brutal exchange with one of the assassins, his shield parrying the blow only just in time. Each strike he delivered seemed to take more energy than the last, and the Shadows seemed to grow in number with every breath.
Then, without warning, the walls of the great hall seemed to pulse—an ominous hissing sound rising from the stone. A noxious gas began to seep from the cracks, thick and suffocating.
"Gas!" Christian shouted, his voice rising in alarm.
But the Templars were already too late. The gas spread quickly, curling into their lungs like an insidious snake. One by one, they staggered and fell, their faces contorted in pain, gasping for breath. Their armor clanked as they dropped to the cold stone floor, unconscious, their bodies too weak to fight it off.
Only Christian Classon and a few others remained standing, their faces pale, sweat dripping from their brows as they fought the overwhelming sensation of vertigo. But it was clear: this was no ordinary poison. The shadows were closing in around them now, encircling their remaining forces.
And just when all seemed lost, a figure emerged from the deepest shadows—tall, imposing, and wrapped in a cloak that seemed to absorb the light.
Thomas Duskrane.
His eyes gleamed with an unsettling calm, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he surveyed the fallen Templars. The air seemed to grow colder still as he stepped forward, his footsteps echoing across the hall like a death knell.
Christian Classon's heart skipped a beat, a cold shiver running down his spine as he faced the old Count of Duskrane County. The old man was an enigma, his reputation darker than the shadows themselves. And now, in this forsaken fortress, Thomas stood before him—his eyes burning with a malicious light.
"You've come to reclaim what's mine, Lord Marshal," Thomas's voice was low and chilling, his words dripping with an eerie calmness. "But this... this is where your journey ends."
Christian's sword arm trembled, but his resolve remained. "We will not be so easily defeated, Count. Your shadows can't save you."
Thomas chuckled, the sound echoing off the cold walls. "We shall see, Marshal. We shall see."
And with that, the darkness closed in, the figure of Thomas Duskrane towering over them, his presence a harbinger of doom.