In the waning days of autumn, when the mists clung low to the earth and the crows grew fat on carrion, there ca word from the South that the Duke of Thorpes will make a move soon.
The ssenger paused at the foot of the mighty fortress. The castle soared against the autumnal sky; its walls of finely cut stone gleaming with a deep, rich hue in the waning light. Tall battlents and towering turrets crowned the stronghold, their silhouettes etched sharply against the mottled clouds. The ssenger, in a hushed murmur, he whispered to himself, "With a fortress as impenetrable as this, non may conquer it."
At the entrance, a pair of massive iron-bound doors, embellished with wrought-iron designs of dragons and swords. Uniford in polished plate and chainmail, the knights moved with military precision, their eyes ever alert, their postures rigid, they are indeed a well-disciplined knight that patrolled every corridor.
Summoning his resolve, the ssenger paused at the threshold, offered a final respectful glance at the banner-adorned ramparts, and then gently pushed open the massive door.
The torches along the hall flickered low, casting long shadows across the cold flagstones of the Stone Court. The air was thick with the scent of iron and old smoke. At the far end, beneath a canopy of black velvet stitched with silver thread, sat Duke Ashby Rothfeld. Though he was in his mid-twenties, the interplay of light and shadow concealed his features.
A gust of wind swept through, and with it ca the crimson flag, unfurled by the trembling hands of a weary ssenger. Upon the flag, stitched in black thread, was the sigil emblazoned with a fearso dragon coiled tightly around a sword.
The ssenger entered, cloaked in dust and sweat; his boots caked with the mud of a hundred leagues. He dropped to one knee before the dais, his breath ragged, his hand clutching a scroll sealed in red wax. The ssenger said, voice trembling, "My lord Duke, I bring word from Sir Rowan Thelm."
Duke Ashby didn't speak. He rely extended his hand. The scroll was placed in his palm. He broke the seal with a flick of his thumb and read in silence. After a long stillness, his voice, deep and resonant as he uttered, "It's been a month since Darius and his five-hundred elite knights went missing. My Stewart, Rowan was on search once again."
"In the tense pause that followed, conflicting murmurs rippled through the gathered vassals. From the back of the room, one voice, edged with uncertainty, ventured, "The barbarians might have held them captive."
Another, retainer though no less grim, countered, "I trust the report of the Stewart. The barbarians were annihilated...a month ago."
A hushed, anxious speculation mingled in the air as another addendum followed, "They might have been attacked by the monsters in the Cursed Forest of Monsters."
A further voice, softer yet weighted with pragmatic concern, added, "Reports said that they only wander the woods that skirt its edges where there is no monster and should be safe. No bloodshed. They must have been chasing the remaining escaping barbarians."
The conflicting words, fraught with fear and uncertainty, made the already tense atmosphere even more unbearable. Finally, one brave vassal stepped forward, his voice quivering with equal parts hope and dread, "I wonder what fate has befallen them, my lord?"
The duke's eyes flashed as he intoned, "Silence! It's prophecy. The remnant of the demon incarnate will be discovered."
The vassals exchanged uneasy glances, grappling with the sheer audacity of his declaration. But considering their Duke's unpredictable temperant, no vassals dared to voice opposition.
Then, silent fell.
With a asured motion, he rose from his seat. In that instant, the flickering torchlight cast his tall, imposing silhouette across the hall as he remarked, "Of course, not anyone except in this room understand what I am talking about."
He turned to the ssenger and said, "ssenger, deliver this ssage to Rowan: cease your search without delay and return imdiately to the estate. We now prepare for our conquest of the West."
The ssenger straightened, his expression a study in respectful resolve. In a clear, steady tone, he replied, "As you command, my lord."
Bowing deeply, the ssenger rose from his kneeling position and, without another word, slipped silently into the shadowed corridor to fulfill his task.
Duke Ashby thought to himself, "It's about ti to expand my military force in preparation for the prophecy."
One of the vassals, unable to restrain his doubt any longer, stepped forward, his voice tense with skepticism, "We have already subdued the entire South, my lord... and the West holds an impenetrable alliance with the North. Would it not be a blunder to wage war against them? Conquering the East would be the more reasonable course."
The torches sputtered weakly, their wavering light casting distorted shapes across the cold stone floor. As Duke Ashby slowly moved, his form lood over the room like a specter, the darkness swallowing him whole, amplifying his unyielding authority. His re movent sent a ripple of unease through his vassals. His presence beca suffocating, commanding absolute submission. His voice, once asured, now bristled with fury, "You speak of reason, yet you understand nothing of war!".
The vassal stiffened, yet dared not et his Duke's unseen gaze. Not even the bravest among them dared to let their eyes drift toward his shadow. He thought to himself, "Conquering the East- the land of Mages, where Sage Robert reigns- is sheer madness. To challenge that domain with our current strength could lead into casualty though I'm confident that we'll win."
With a slow, deliberate movent, Ashby stepped forward. His looming figure, made larger by the wavering light, fell upon the insolent vassal like an on. He growled, "Do not mistake recklessness for wisdom. The East will remain untouched- for now."
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