Byronard stood at the gate, his towering form outlined by the dimming light of the waning day. His hand rested on the hilt of his massive zweihander, the sword’s edge gleaming ominously. Behind him, Demetrius and his company stood at attention, eager for the battle that was about to begin.

  Demetrius, ever the stalwart warrior, greeted his captain with a firm salute. “Captain Byronard, we are ready to follow you to the gates of hell itself.”

  Byronard gave a rare smile, grim but reassuring. “You always were eager for a fight, Demetrius. Don’t hold back today. The enemy won’t give us any mercy, so we can’t afford to show any.”

  Demetrius’ smile widened, and his comrades nodded in agreement, their weapons already in hand. The company of royal guards stood proud, battle-hardened and fierce. Byronard’s words were like a clarion call, a signal to all that the coming battle would test every ounce of their strength.

  “Do not hold back,” Byronard repeated, his voice cutting through the rising tension in the air. “Use magic. Use anything you have. The goal is to kill, and we will stop at nothing to protect this city.”

  The gates groaned and began to rise, their massive stone doors scraping against the earth, opening to reveal the battlefield that lay beyond. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke, and the distant cries of the enemy echoed through the air. The vast army amassing outside the walls of the city was a dark, oppressive force—a sight that would break the spirit of most men.

  But not Byronard. He stood resolute, eyes locked on the horizon.

  The first of the royal guards stepped forward, ready to march out, but the sharp voices of Flint and the other heads rang out from the city walls above.

  “Byronard!” Flint’s voice was laced with anger and disbelief. “What are you doing?! We can’t just open the gates! Not yet!”

  Byronard glanced up at the figures standing atop the city walls, their faces filled with confusion and concern. The others—Lady Tryst, Silas Davenmere, and even Augustus—watched with bated breath.

  “This is madness!” shouted Silas. “We haven’t even fortified the city properly. You’ll lead them straight to our doorstep.”

  But Byronard’s gaze never wavered. His deep voice was steady, unwavering. “You don’t understand. We’re not just fighting for survival today. We’re looking for something. Someone.”

  Flint’s brow furrowed. “The Black Herald?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Indeed, I am,” Byronard replied, his eyes narrowing as he gazed into the darkening horizon. “We know it’s here, and we know that if we don’t confront it now, it will only grow stronger. The longer we wait, the more damage it’ll do. This is our best chance to flush it out.”

  The gates creaked open wider, the heavy iron doors now wide enough for a dozen men to march through at once. Byronard turned to Demetrius and the others. “Form up, men. The enemy is coming, and we must meet them head-on.”

  Flint’s voice grew more desperate. “You can’t risk it! If we open the gates now, we’ll be overrun. You’re playing into its hands!”

  Byronard didn’t falter. He raised his hand, signaling to the royal guards, and Demetrius and his company began to move forward, their weapons drawn. The gates continued to creak open, revealing the dark mass of the enemy army, their eerie, pale skin glowing under the light of the moon.

  “We have no choice,” Byronard said, his voice carrying the weight of years spent fighting. “If we don’t draw it out now, we may never get another chance. This is our moment.”

  As Demetrius’ company took position, and the royal guards prepared for the first wave of attackers, Byronard turned his gaze back to the opening gates. The Black Herald—whoever it truly was—was out there. And Byronard was determined to find it, even if it meant risking everything.

  The final part of the gate slid open, revealing the chaos beyond. The enemy stood just on the other side, waiting for the signal to charge.

  Flint and the other heads continued to shout from the walls, urging caution, but Byronard remained unmoved.

  “Brace yourselves,” he called to his men. “We fight for the city. And for our future.”

  With a final glance toward the city walls, Byronard led the charge, his men following close behind, their footsteps heavy against the ground. As they advanced, the gates slammed shut behind them, cutting off their retreat.

  Flint watched, his heart heavy with dread. The city walls were now empty—save for the heads and the remaining guards—and the fate of the kingdom was teetering on the edge of a blade.

  A deep, resonant horn echoed across the battlefield, its sound both alluring and ominous. It did not carry the brutish harshness of war drums or the rattling call of a normal warhorn—it was something more sinister. It slithered into the ears of all who heard it, laced with an unnatural melody that sent shivers down the spine.

  Flint stiffened atop the city walls, his grip tightening on the stone battlements as the sound crawled under his skin. It was not just a signal for the enemy to advance—it was a call, an invitation.

  And the enemy answered.

  The horde of pale-skinned warriors, their bodies marked with black runes, moved in unison, their footsteps rolling across the battlefield like thunder. Weapons glinted under the moonlight, their ranks stretching far beyond what the eye could see. They surged forward to meet Byronard’s force—over a hundred royal guards and battle-hardened warriors standing against thousands.

  “By the Divines,” Augustus muttered beside Flint, his earlier composure fracturing. “We need reinforcements! Now!”

  He turned sharply toward the archers stationed along the walls. “Loose arrows! As far as you can! Don’t hold back!”

  A flurry of bowstrings snapped in unison. A black cloud of arrows arced through the sky before descending upon the enemy with lethal precision. Dozens of invaders fell instantly, their bodies crumpling to the earth. The first wave faltered but did not stop.

  “They just keep coming,” Silas growled. “This won’t be enough.”

  That was when Emilie Blackstone stepped forward.

  She reached into the magic pouch at her waist, fingers brushing against the cool surface of what she sought. Thin metallic threads, glimmering faintly in the dim light, lay coiled within. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she pulled the strands free—Nyxsteel strings, nearly invisible to the naked eye, yet sharp enough to cut through flesh like silk.

  Silas noticed the weapon first, his smirk widening. “Oh? You’ve been carrying that around this whole time?” His tone was amused, yet there was a hint of wariness in his voice. “Didn’t take you for the dangerous type, Blackstone.”

  Emilie said nothing. She simply stepped onto the stone ledge, her eyes narrowing as she lifted her hands. With a single movement, she tossed the Nyxsteel strings into the air.

  Then she moved.

  The threads expanded, weaving outward like an unseen web, dancing under the moonlight as they stretched across the battlefield. Emilie’s fingers twitched, and the strings responded.

  A pale-skinned warrior in the front ranks stumbled—then suddenly, his body separated into two clean halves. Another enemy charged forward, but his run ended in a spray of crimson as he collapsed in a heap, his head sliding from his shoulders.

  One by one, they fell.

  They didn’t even realize they were being cut down.

  The advancing army faltered. Panic spread like wildfire as warriors collapsed mid-stride, their limbs severed, their bodies split apart by weapons they could not see.

  Silas let out a low whistle. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  Emilie remained focused, her fingers expertly guiding the deadly web of Nyxsteel. The strings twisted and reformed, slicing through armor and bone alike. Those who dared to advance found themselves ensnared in an unseen death trap.

  The battlefield had become a butcher’s yard.

  But still, the enemy pressed forward. The horn sounded again—louder, deeper, filled with an unnatural hunger.

  And this time, something else stirred beyond the mass of pale-skinned warriors.

  Something bigger.

  Its shout was deafening, primal—like the bellow of some ancient beast awakened from slumber. The battlefield trembled as something massive moved behind the enemy ranks.

  Emilie’s fingers twitched, redirecting her strings toward the source of the sound. The nearly invisible blades shot forward, weaving through the air toward the emerging figure.

  Then, for the first time, something did not fall.

  Instead, the strings snapped.

  Emilie’s breath caught in her throat.

  A figure strode forth from the enemy horde, towering over the warriors around it. It was no mere man, no foot soldier bound to march and die in droves. This thing was a monstrosity.

  Its body was draped in thick, blackened plates, fused to its flesh like molten rock hardened into armor. The markings of the enemy soldiers were carved into its skin, but unlike the others, they pulsed with a dull red glow. In one clawed hand, it wielded a massive cleaver, jagged and crude, yet crackling with dark energy.

  Its head was bestial—more akin to a horned demon than any mortal creature—with piercing, pupil-less eyes that burned with an unnatural fire.

  Flint watched from the walls, gripping the stone tightly. “What in the hells is that?”

  Emilie snapped her fingers, sending a fresh set of strings toward the monster’s legs. The razor-thin weapons wrapped around its limbs, tightening like a noose—

  Then they shattered.

  Not broke. Not cut. Shattered.

  Emilie’s breath hitched. That’s not possible.

  Her Nyxsteel had sliced through plated armor, enchanted steel, even the toughest magical barriers. Yet here, against this thing—her weapon was useless.

  Silas saw her expression shift, something rare and unnerving. “I don’t like that look on your face,” he muttered.

  Emilie remained silent, her mind racing for a solution. But before she could react, the monster moved.

  And it moved fast.

  With a ground-shaking step, the beast lunged forward, its cleaver crashing down like a falling star. The impact sent a shockwave rippling across the battlefield, hurling men—both friend and foe—through the air.

  The remaining royal guards barely managed to roll aside, avoiding the cleaver’s devastating path. Dirt and stone exploded from the force of the strike, leaving a deep fissure in the earth.

  Augustus, from atop the wall, turned to Flint. “I think we just found our problem.”

  The horn blared again, and as if answering its call, the hulking creature lifted its cleaver once more.

  This battle had just become far more dangerous.

  As the monstrous beast took its first crushing step, the royal guards instinctively turned their attention to it, their disciplined formations shifting as they unleashed their might upon the abomination.

  A barrage of steel and magic rained down.

  One guard, clad in gold-trimmed plate, hurled a spear wreathed in crackling blue energy. It struck the beast’s shoulder but did little more than leave a shallow scorch mark before the energy dissipated.

  Another warrior, a battlemage, raised his staff high and bellowed an incantation. The ground beneath the creature ignited in a sudden explosion of fire and stone. The flames roared, swallowing the beast whole in a vortex of heat—

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  But as the smoke cleared, the monster remained standing.

  Unscathed.

  A warhammer, reinforced with earth magic, crashed against its side with the force of a battering ram. The wielder—a broad-shouldered knight whose blows could shatter walls—gritted his teeth as he struck again and again. Yet his attacks bounced off as if he were striking a mountain.

  Then, to the horror of the soldiers, the beast did something no one expected.

  It laughed.

  A guttural, inhuman sound rumbled from its throat as the red markings on its skin pulsed brighter. The surrounding enemy warriors, who had hesitated upon seeing their ranks decimated, now cheered. A roar of elation erupted from the horde, their confidence surging as they watched the mighty royal guard falter.

  Flint narrowed his eyes. “That’s not good.”

  Augustus slammed a fist against the battlements. “Damn thing’s turning the tide. If this keeps up—”

  A new voice cut through the battlefield.

  “Enough.”

  It was not shouted. It was not screamed. It was simply spoken with such authority that the entire front line froze.

  Byronard stepped forward, his zweihander gleaming under the moonlight. The man who had always stood as an unshakable pillar, the unchallenged leader of the royal guard, finally moved.

  He exhaled slowly, then spoke again. “This fight is mine.”

  The guards hesitated.

  “But, Captain—” one soldier started.

  “Leave it to me,” Byronard repeated, eyes never leaving the beast. His voice left no room for argument.

  Slowly, the guards stepped back, falling into defensive positions against the enemy ranks. Their hesitation was clear—none of them had ever seen Byronard fight on this scale.

  No one had.

  Not even Flint.

  From atop the wall, Flint, Emilie, Silas, and Augustus watched intently.

  “I have a feeling,” Silas muttered, “that we’re about to see something insane.”

  The monster’s glowing eyes locked onto Byronard. It let out a guttural snarl, recognizing the challenge.

  Then, with terrifying speed, it charged.

  The battlefield trembled as its cleaver came down with thunderous force, aiming to cleave Byronard in two.

  But Byronard was already gone.

  A flicker of movement—too fast for the untrained eye. He had sidestepped, the blade missing him by mere inches. Dust and shattered stone erupted from where the weapon struck.

  Then came the counter.

  Byronard weaved through the monster’s swings with effortless precision, his zweihander moving like an extension of his own body. Every movement was deliberate, every step measured. His footwork was light, almost dance-like, but his strikes were anything but.

  The moment he saw an opening, he took it.

  His zweihander flashed, carving into the beast’s exposed side.

  For the first time, it bled.

  The crowd—both allies and enemies—fell silent.

  The monster roared, enraged, and swung again—wider, wilder, desperate. But Byronard had already repositioned. He flowed between the gaps in its attacks, like water slipping through cracks in stone.

  It swung. He dodged.

  It lunged. He sidestepped.

  It brought the cleaver down one final time—

  And Byronard struck.

  With a single fluid motion, he stepped into the beast’s guard, his zweihander flashing in the moonlight. The blade sang through the air—

  And cleaved through the monster’s torso with ease.

  For a moment, the battlefield seemed to pause.

  Then, with a sickening crack, the beast’s body split apart—severed in two.

  It didn’t even have time to scream.

  The enemy’s cheers died instantly.

  The battlefield fell into stunned silence as the hulking creature crumbled, collapsing into the blood-soaked dirt.

  Byronard exhaled and flicked his zweihander once, sending a thin trail of blackened blood splattering onto the ground. His expression remained unreadable.

  He turned his gaze toward the enemy forces.

  And with a single step forward, the entire front line of enemy soldiers took a step back.

  Flint could only stare. He had known Byronard was powerful. Respected. Feared.

  But this…

  This was something else.

  Silas let out a long whistle. “Well. I think we found out why they call him the Sword of the Morning.”

  The tide of battle had shifted once more.

  And this time, the enemy, once known to show little to no emotion, knew fear.

  The battlefield remained frozen in the aftermath of Byronard’s triumph. Even the enemy, who moments ago had roared in victory, now hesitated, their confidence shattered. The towering beast that once seemed invincible lay in two lifeless halves, its dark essence seeping into the dirt.

  And then—

  Clap.

  A slow, deliberate clap echoed across the field.

  The sound cut through the night like a blade, sultry and amused, yet dripping with something wrong.

  Byronard tensed. Flint’s instincts screamed. Emilie’s fingers hovered over her strings, ready. Silas muttered a curse under his breath.

  From the enemy’s ranks, a figure emerged.

  She did not stomp forward like a brute, nor march like a commander. She glided, her presence an undeniable weight pressing upon all who dared gaze at her.

  Even the enemy soldiers made way, parting like waves before her.

  She was draped in a dark, near-translucent gown, clinging to her frame in a way that left little to the imagination. The fabric shimmered unnaturally, as though it weren’t fabric at all, but something woven from shadows and whispers. Strands of black silk curled around her fingers, her nails painted the deep red of freshly spilled blood.

  Her hair was long, cascading in dark waves, reaching her lower back, framing a face so hauntingly perfect it felt unreal. Her lips were full, painted with a sinful shade of crimson, curved into a knowing smirk. But it was her eyes that commanded the most attention—deep pools of violet, swirling with something dangerous.

  Flint swallowed. He had seen magic that could control the mind. He had seen sorcerers bend men’s wills.

  But this?

  This was something else entirely.

  She stopped mere steps away from the remains of the fallen beast, her gaze flickering over its corpse with the mildest of amusement. Then, she turned her attention to Byronard.

  “You,” she murmured, her voice a melody laced with poison. “You’re quite something, aren’t you?”

  Byronard didn’t move. His zweihander remained in hand, tip pointed downward, but his stance was rigid—ready.

  She exhaled a soft laugh, her eyes dragging over him, slow and indulgent. “And handsome, too. What a delightful surprise.”

  “Who are you?” Byronard demanded, his voice firm.

  Her smirk widened.

  “Ah, introductions.” She tilted her head, feigning thought. “I suppose I owe you that much after such a stunning performance.”

  She took another step forward, her fingers toying with the edge of her gown.

  “I am called many things.” She sighed. “A goddess to some, a nightmare to others.” Her eyes gleamed as they flickered toward the soldiers on the walls, lingering on Flint. “Temptation made flesh. A whisper in the dark.”

  The air around them seemed thicker, heavier, charged with an unspoken heat that slithered into the mind. Even the royal guards, hardened warriors, seemed to stiffen, their gazes subtly flickering toward her figure, breath unsteady.

  Then she grinned, fangs barely visible.

  “But you may call me Lilith, the Black Herald, as those poor soldiers cry out.”

  Silence.

  A sharp gust of wind passed through the battlefield.

  Flint exhaled, his grip tightening on the stone battlements. She’s dangerous.

  Not because of the way she looked. Not because of the way she spoke.

  But because the very air felt different in her presence.

  Lilith finally turned her attention back to Byronard.

  “I must admit,” she purred, “when I heard about the infamous Sword of the Morning, I expected something far less… enthralling.”

  Byronard’s jaw tensed. “And I expected something more monstrous.”

  Lilith’s laughter was like silk sliding over steel.

  “Oh, but darling…” She slowly extended her arms, her gown shifting unnaturally, shadows curling around her wrists. “What is a monster, if not the most exquisite of creations?”

  The moment she finished speaking, the ground beneath Byronard’s feet shattered.

  Dark tendrils erupted from below, twisting, clawing, lunging toward him with inhuman speed.

  Byronard reacted instantly. His zweihander flashed, cutting through the first tendrils with a single, fluid strike. But the moment he severed them, more took their place.

  From atop the wall, Augustus shouted, “What in the Divines’ name is that?!”

  Silas clenched his jaw. “That’s not normal magic.”

  Flint didn’t need to be told. He could feel it—the unnatural pull of it, the way it crawled under his skin.

  Lilith watched Byronard move, weaving through her attacks with calculated grace.

  Then she smirked.

  “Good,” she whispered.

  And with a snap of her fingers, she disappeared.

  No sound. No flash of light. No trace.

  One moment she was there. The next, she was behind Byronard.

  He barely had time to react before her nails dragged lightly across his back—not enough to wound, but just enough to be felt.

  Byronard whirled, his zweihander slicing clean through where she should have been—

  But she was already gone again.

  High above.

  Lilith floated in midair, lounging as if resting on an invisible throne, her gown flowing around her in hypnotic waves.

  Her lips curled into something wicked.

  “Oh, Byronard,” she purred, violet eyes gleaming. “Do try to make this fun for me.”

  And with that, the battle truly began.

  ***

  The battlefield was a writhing storm of steel and blood. The royal guards, hardened warriors of Primera, had stood firm at Byronard’s command. But now, they were no longer alone.

  Reinforcements had arrived.

  The personal guards of House Blackstone, House Davenmere, and House Hawthorne surged into the fray, their banners cutting through the smoke and carnage.

  Augustus, clad in his heavy armor, was the first to reach the front lines. A storm of steel and fury, he moved through the battlefield like an unshakable titan, his lance skewering enemies in rapid succession while his massive shield crashed against anything in his path, sending bodies flying. His helmet gleamed under the pale moonlight, blood staining the crown of thorns emblazoned upon his armor.

  “Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the battlefield like a warhorn.

  Silas Davenmere followed next, but where Augustus was an unyielding fortress, Silas was a storm of chaos. He weaved through the battle with a predatory grin, his throwing axes whipping through the air, severing limbs and opening throats before snapping back into his grasp via the chains attached to them.

  “Now this is a fight!” he laughed, spinning one of his axes before letting it fly. It sank into the skull of a pale-skinned warrior, and with a flick of his wrist, the weapon ripped free, returning to his grip in a single fluid motion.

  From atop the walls, Emilie Blackstone commanded the archers with a voice like iron.

  “Loose! Fire again! Keep them off the guard’s flanks!”

  The air above the battlefield darkened as volleys of arrows rained down upon the enemy ranks, thinning their numbers in deadly waves. She remained in control, her sharp eyes scanning for weaknesses, for openings, for any sign of the true threat.

  Below, Flint gritted his teeth, his sword flashing as he cut down an enemy that had slipped through the chaos.

  He felt it—the creeping realization that, no matter how many fell, the tide did not slow.

  The enemy did not stop.

  Black markings covered the pale warriors’ flesh, some of them glowing with eerie, pulsating light. When they fell, some of them did not bleed at all.

  Flint exhaled sharply, his boots skidding across the bloodstained ground as he parried another incoming strike.

  “They’re unnatural,” he muttered, shoving his blade deep into the chest of another enemy. “What the hell are we fighting?”

  Silas, nearby, yanked his axe from another corpse and shrugged. “Hell if I know. But they bleed—and that’s good enough for me.”

  Another monstrous horn howled in the distance, deep and guttural, shaking the very earth beneath them.

  And the enemy surged forward once more.

  Above them, Lilith watched, lounging midair, amused.

  Her crimson eyes gleamed as she surveyed the battlefield, her lips curled into a sultry, knowing smile. Draped in armor that did little to hide the allure of her figure, she exuded an unnatural presence—one that made even the most hardened warriors falter. Tendrils of dark energy coiled around her fingertips, pulsating with forbidden power.

  Her gaze shifted to Byronard.

  “The Sword of the Morning…” she mused, her voice a melodious whisper that carried unnaturally through the air. “You are stronger than the others.”

  Byronard’s zweihander rested lightly on his shoulder as he stared up at her, his face unreadable. “And you are the thing commanding these creatures?”

  Lilith chuckled. “Oh, they follow willingly. They crave the gifts I offer.” She tilted her head. “And you? Do you crave, I wonder?”

  Byronard’s grip on his sword tightened. He could feel it—the weight of her presence pressing against his mind. A lesser man might have faltered, but he was no ordinary knight.

  “Enough talk,” he said, his voice cold. “Come down here and fight. After that, we'll wring the answers out of you before putting you down.”

  Lilith’s smile widened. “Oh, darling, I was hoping you’d say that.”

  With an elegant flick of her wrist, she descended, her movements too fluid, too perfect. As her feet touched the battlefield, the earth itself seemed to darken, shadows writhing beneath her form.

  The battlefield paused. Even the enemy soldiers hesitated, their unnatural hunger momentarily stilled by their mistress’s presence.

  Then, Byronard moved.

  He launched forward, his zweihander arcing through the air like a silver streak of death. The sheer force of his strike sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield.

  But Lilith was gone. She vanished—not through speed, but through something else entirely.

  Byronard barely had time to react as a whisper brushed against his ear.

  “Too slow.”

  A sharp pain flared across his back as shadow-forged claws raked through his armor, cutting deep. He gritted his teeth, whirling just in time to block another strike, his zweihander colliding against nothingness—an invisible force pressing against his blade.

  Lilith stood just out of reach, her fingers still dripping with blackened energy.

  “Shall we play a little longer?” she purred.

  Byronard exhaled, rolling his shoulders despite the wound. He steadied himself and recognized the mana. It was different, yet similar at the same time. It was dark, brooding, and cold. Similar to Dante's, the kingslayer. The crown regent and captain of the royal guards understood then and there that this was going to be a difficult one.

  Then, seemingly out of thin air, a new presence emerged.

  Gabriel had arrived without a noise, her silver armor shining in the moonlight, her hands gripping twin daggers.

  Her golden eyes burned with resolve as she walked slowly toward Byronard and Lilith.

  Lilith turned her gaze toward the newcomer, her smirk faltering. “Oh…? And what are you supposed to be?”

  Gabriel didn’t answer. Instead, she dove into the fray.