The first light of dawn broke over Geldos City, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, a serene backdrop to the storm brewing at its gates.
Count Cobry with a face etched with exhaustion and worry, led his weary pike cavalry to the city's towering walls.
His heart lifted at the sight of his family's bull's-head flag fluttering defiantly atop the ramparts, a symbol of his enduring power.
"Home," he murmured, his voice heavy with relief even though a nagging unease lingered in his chest.
He raised a hand and signaled his men to halt, their horses snorting clouds of steam in the crisp morning air.
"Send word to open the gates," he ordered, his voice gruff, envisioning rest after a long period of being travel-worn.
"These men have earned their beds after a night of hard riding." His aides nodded, spurring their mounts forward, their shouts ringing out as they demanded the drawbridge be lowered and the gates swung wide for their lord's return.
But the city remained silent. No creak of chains or no groan of wood signaled the bridge's descent.
Instead, the garrison troops on the walls stared down, their faces hard and hands gripping bows with unmistakable intent.
"Back off, you dogs!" one shouted, his voice dripping with scorn. "Think you can waltz in here?" Others joined in, hurling curses, their bows nocked as if facing invaders, not their own lord.
Cobry's brow furrowed, a flicker of pride in his eyes at first. "Good discipline," he muttered, his voice tinged with approval. "They're cautious and alert."
But as half an hour dragged on, the insults growing sharper and the gates remaining sealed, his satisfaction curdled into suspicion.
"Something's wrong," he growled, his voice low and tense, his gaze narrowing at the walls.
Then, a stir atop the ramparts caught his eye. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged, leading a group of armed men. Cobry's heart lurched as he recognized Chino Freiyar, the Gold-ranked mercenary he'd imprisoned for refusing to bend the knee. Freiyar's presence was a blade to his gut, his defiance a living rebuke to Cobry's authority.
Freiyar stepped to the edge of the wall, his voice booming with unyielding confidence. "Count Cobry, this city is not yours anymore! Geldos bows to my Lord, not you!" His tone was laced with triumph, a man savoring the reversal of fates.
Cobry's mind reeled, his voice a hoarse whisper of disbelief. "This… this is a nightmare." He shook his head, his heart pounding with denial. "A prisoner like you? Taking my city? Impossible!"
Rage surged, his face reddening as he jabbed a trembling finger at the bull's-head flag. "If you've taken Geldos, why's my flag still flying, you lying cur?"
Freiyar's laughter rang out, sharp and embarrassed, his voice rich with mockery. "Oh, that? My apologies, Count—I forgot to use it to wipe my arse after the latrine this morning. Been a bit busy running your city!"
He grinned, his tone dripping with insolence. "I'll have it taken down for the privies right after this, don't you worry."
Cobry's veins bulged, his voice a roar of fury. "You insolent dog!" His hands clenched, trembling with the urge to strangle Freiyar himself.
Beside him, one of his Gold-ranked sons, his face twisted with indignation, stepped forward, his voice venomous. "Ungrateful savage! Father treated you like a prized hound, and you betray him the moment his back's turned? You spit on his kindness!"
Freiyar's face darkened, his temper snapping like a taut bowstring. "Kindness?" he bellowed, his voice raw with pain and rage. "You call murdering my adopted mother and caging my wife and twins a favor? You're sick and deluded!"
His eyes blazed, his hand slashing the air. "Enough talk! Archers—fire!"
A hail of arrows rained down, three finding their mark in the Gold-ranked son's shoulder and chest. He staggered, gasping, saved only by the pike cavalrymen who threw themselves in front of him with their shields raised.
The count's men scrambled back, leaving a score of bodies—ten, perhaps twelve sprawled near the gates, their blood staining the earth.
Cobry was unscathed but seething, retreated beyond the bowmen's range, his voice a snarl. "Log the trees! Build siege ladders—now! We take the city by force!" His heart burned with betrayal, the city he'd built now a fortress against him.
But he overlooked a fatal flaw. These pike cavalrymen, hastily formed from the laborer camp weren't the loyal bandits who'd ridden with him for years.
As they milled about, some caught sight of familiar faces on the walls—comrades, kin.
Whispers spread, voices low but urgent. "Your families—they're safe," a wall guard called down, his voice warm with reassurance. "Lord Styles freed them, fed them!" Relief washed over the cavalrymen, their loyalty to Cobry fraying like worn rope.
While Cobry raged and ordered for building ladders, his men dragged their feet as their hearts was no longer in the fight.
By afternoon, only three rickety siege ladders stood, crafted with deliberate sluggishness.
Cobry's fury boiled over, his voice a whip-crack as he caned the slowest workers. "You lazy curs!" he roared, his face crimson.
"You—ten of you—lead the first wave, or I'll flay you myself!" His hand trembled, his authority slipping like sand through his fingers.
The result was a farce that nearly broke him. The punished soldiers climbed the ladders, unopposed by the wall's defenders. Reaching the top, they tossed their weapons aside, embracing their comrades with laughter and tears.
"To hell with Cobry!" one shouted, his voice thick with defiance, echoed by others who cursed the count's name. In a final act of betrayal, they hauled the ladders up, denying Cobry's forces their use.(image)
The count staggered, his face scarlet, and spat a mouthful of blood, his rage choking him.
His second Gold-ranked son, wild-eyed, unleashed a torrent of vulgar curses at the walls, his voice hoarse with desperation.
Seeing his father collapse and blood trickling from his lips, the Silver-ranked sons acted swiftly.
"Kill the traitors' mounts!" one ordered, his voice sharp with pragmatism. "Butcher them for meat—our men are starving."
The cavalrymen, exhausted from their nightlong march, tore into the horseflesh with grim hunger, their morale plummeting.
In a hushed council, the brothers debated, their voices low and anxious. "Only fifty of the six hundred are truly loyal," one whispered, his tone grim. "The rest are laborer scum—they'll turn on us."
They schemed to placate the men, but the count, stirring from his faint, faced a dire choice. Attacking Geldos was suicide; his men's hearts were already half-lost.
Returning to the Motz Hills meant rejoining his garrison regiment, but their supplies would be gone by the time they arrived, risking mutiny.
Fleeing to Williamiles Castle offered a chance to rebuild, but it meant abandoning Geldos and the Motz Hills garrison which was a bitter pill.
As Cobry weighed his options, his voice a weary rasp—"The castle… or the hills?"—the distant thunder of hooves broke his thoughts.
From the path to Williamiles, a group of riders approached, their banners obscured by dust. Allen, Elrod, Hilter, Josk, and Fredrick's knight squad rode in, their arrival a noose tightening around the count's neck.
Josk spurred his horse forward, stopping thirty meters from Cobry's men. With a cold smirk, he tossed three severed heads, which thudded at the count's feet.
Cobry's breath caught, his heart shattering as he recognized his sons from Williamiles Castle.
"No…" he whispered, his voice a broken sob, lightning striking his soul. The castle, his last refuge, was lost.
Josk turned away, rejoining Allen, who sat tall on his horse, his comfortable armor gleaming, long hair flowing, and grey eyes piercing with resolve. (Image)
A faint smile played on his lips, cold and unyielding. Cobry staggered forward, stopping ten meters away, his savage glare fixed on Josk before settling on Allen.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice raw with grief and fury. "Why do you hound me?"
Allen's gaze was ice, his voice cutting like a blade. "Should I call you Count Cobry… or Redbeard, the butcher of Bodolger Province?" His tone dripped with accusation, each word a hammer blow.
Cobry shivered, his face paling, shock etching deep lines. He steadied himself, his voice low but defiant. "You know, then. So what? What of it?" He pointed to Geldos, then the heads, his voice rising with bitter pride. "Who are you to drag my family into ruin?"
"Plotting?" Allen scoffed, his voice thick with bloodlust. "You're nothing, Cobry. Your sins posing as Redbeard slaughtering merchant convoys, sparing neither women nor children—catch up to you today."
Allen leaned forward, his tone venomous. "I'll end your line, just as you crushed the nobles here." He beckoned Hilter, pointing to the Styles insignia on his chest.
"Recognize this? It's was on the red boxes in your chambers, gifts my Third Uncle meant to send for his beloved. Your bandits slaughtered his convoy, and now your crimes against my kin has led me to you."
Cobry's eyes widened, his voice a stammer. "Styles… of the Northlands…"
Memories of that raid flooded back to him, the fierce resistance he faced from their convoy specially loss of his two sons was a unforgettable, he had kept those boxes as trophies.
"So you've come for revenge."
Allen's smile was cruel, his voice unrelenting. "Your rebel-sweeping corps thought to prey on us, but we crushed them. A survivors coincidentally recognized our insignia and told us about your past as Redbeard. Now, I'm here to end you and your cursed bloodline."
Cobry laughed, a hollow sound, his voice defiant. "So what? I've raided countless convoys. You want blood? Come take it. Let's see who survives." He turned, striding back to his men, his heart a storm of fear and resolve.
Allen let him go, his voice calm but commanding. "Anyone below Silver rank, fall back immediately. My Knights, come forth! Form up behind me, take charging formation. Today we rage! Today we make our enemies bleed! Today we eat their hearts and end their line!"
"Hahhh! Kill! Kill!"
Josk, Hilter, and Elrod took their places, their faces grim and cold. A knight handed Allen a pike, its weight a promise of violence. Twenty-seven knights, including Allen's quartet, formed a triangular wedge, their armor glinting in the dawn.
Cobry donned his armor, mounting his horse, his lance raised. Behind him, fifty-eight cavalrymen of his loyal sons and veterans formed their own charge, their faces set with desperate loyalty.
The air grew heavy, the silence oppressive, as both sides faced off. On the walls, Seraphina appeared, her voice a soft chant, weaving a blessing that strengthened Allen, Hilter, and Elrod, their auras flaring with power.
The laborers, the garrison, the onlookers—all froze, their breaths held, as the fate of Geldos hung in the balance, a clash of vengeance and ambition poised to erupt.