The morning of the great battle dawned at last.Haul awoke to birdsong, the sun’s light spilling across his face. He lay still for a moment, staring toward the distant horizon, thoughts racing through his mind. Worries, doubts, and unspoken fears churned within him until a sharp knock broke the silence.

  Haul sat up. “Come in,” he said plainly.

  The door opened to reveal Eamon, clad in gleaming gold armor, a rose carved into his breastplate. A half-cape draped over his left shoulder as he stepped inside.

  “Your Grace, it is almost time,” Eamon said.

  Haul met his gaze and nodded. “I understand.” Rising from the bed, he looked at Eamon again. “I will be there shortly.”

  Eamon bowed deeply and exited, closing the door behind him.

  Haul lowered his eyes to his hands. They trembled violently.

  “I’ve never been in a true battle,” he murmured to himself. “Violence is not something I’m acquainted with… I’ve killed, yes—but never on a grand scale.”

  He crossed the chamber to where his armor rested. It was silver, its sigil black, paired with a long flowing cape trimmed with fur at the shoulders. He lifted it, donned each piece carefully, and strapped it tight. Taking his sword, he secured it at his side, drew in a deep breath, and left his chamber.

  His boots echoed through the halls as he made his way to the king’s hall, where his advisors awaited. Haul seated himself upon the throne.

  “When do they arrive?” he asked.

  Theodore bowed. “My lord, they will be here shortly. They have been spotted beyond the hill.”

  “Understood,” Haul replied. Turning to Eamon and Master Edward, he commanded, “Ready the troops.”

  They bowed and departed.

  Haul then turned to Jeremiah and Theodore. “Gather any information you can that may aid us in this battle.”

  They bowed as well and left, leaving Haul alone in the vast hall. He leaned back upon the throne, the weight of the crown heavy upon him.

  “God,” he whispered, “hear me. Lead us to victory, as you said you would.”

  He rose and returned to his chambers, stepping onto the balcony. The air was still, cool against his skin, the breeze threading through his hair. For a moment, peace lingered—until movement caught his eye beyond the hill.

  His expression hardened. “The time has come.”

  Turning, he seized his helmet, fitted it over his head, and strode from the chamber. Down the stairs and along the halls he went, until Theodore and Jeremiah approached him in haste.

  “They’re above the hill,” they said.

  “I saw,” Haul replied. “Thank you. Keep watch on the sea as well.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Jeremiah answered.

  Haul exited the castle and found his men assembling. He raised his voice and cried out, “WITH ME, MEN! TODAY WE FIGHT FOR THE PEOPLE OF ENORA—AND FOR FREEDOM!”

  A thunderous war cry answered him. Steel rang as weapons were drawn, and the soldiers followed him through the city streets. The people watched in silence as Haul called out once more.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  “People of Enora, remain in your homes! This is an order from your king!”

  The streets emptied as doors slammed shut. When Haul reached the gates, his soldiers parted, creating a path. At the far end stood Eamon and Edward.

  Haul turned back to his army and shouted, “THIS DAY WE FIGHT NOT FOR OURSELVES—NOT FOR GLORY OR PRAISE—BUT FOR THE PEOPLE OF ENORA AND ASHVIRE! FOR HOUSE BLACKMOOR! FOR HOUSE VELASTRA!”

  The roar that followed could be heard for miles.

  Turning to Eamon and Edward, Haul said quietly, “This is not the end for us.”

  They nodded.

  Haul mounted his horse, as did the rest of the soldiers. Together they watched as thousands of men poured over the hill—banners from across the world, all gathered to end House Blackmoor. Haul’s eyes scanned the captains and generals in their shining armor, his gaze filled with disgust.

  “Dear Lord,” he prayed silently, “be with us in our time of need. Give me strength to destroy my enemies.”

  He looked to Eamon. “With me—we ride to victory.”

  “You’re damn right, my lord,” Eamon replied with a grin.

  Across the field, enemy captains raised their swords and pointed downward.“KILL THEM! LEAVE NO SURVIVORS!”

  The horde surged forward, screams filling the air.

  “WAIT FOR MY SIGNAL!” Haul bellowed.

  When the enemy reached the halfway point, Haul thrust his sword forward.“TO VICTORY!”

  The charge thundered forth. Hooves and steel collided as the armies met. The clash of swords echoed like thunder. Haul rose in his saddle, crouched low, eyes locking onto an enemy soldier.

  “DIE!” he roared.

  The soldier barely had time to look up before Haul descended upon him, blade piercing armor and flesh alike. The man was thrown from his horse. Haul landed, kneeling beside the impaled body, then wrenched his sword free, blood dripping from the blade. Smiling grimly, he remounted and cut through many more—until a crushing blow sent him flying.

  He hit the ground hard, dazed.

  “Who could hit me that hard?” he thought.

  His eyes drifted to his horse—split clean in two.

  Horror widened his gaze.

  Then he saw him: a man riding a massive rhino, clad in gold and black armor, a cross emblazoned with an eye bleeding from its center. The man dismounted and strode toward Haul.

  Haul forced himself up, sword in hand.“So,” the man said calmly, “you are the one they wish dead. How interesting.”

  Without another word, the man charged, moving impossibly fast. Haul dodged the first strike and countered, but the man slipped away. Their swords clashed again and again until the man suddenly hurled his blade.

  It struck Haul in the side. Flesh tore. Blood spilled. He staggered as part of his entrails became visible.

  The man rushed forward. Haul could not escape in time. Hands closed around his throat, crushing the air from his lungs. His vision darkened—

  An arrow struck the man’s arm.

  He released Haul, who collapsed to the ground. Eamon surged forward, cutting down foes as he approached.

  “You hurt our lord,” Eamon snarled. “That cannot stand.”

  The duel that followed was brutal—steel flashing, bodies falling. Eamon impaled the man, only to be thrown aside. Rising without a sword, he attacked again, sliding beneath a strike, reclaiming his blade, and delivering a crushing kick.

  He settled into a fighting stance, smiling.“You are tough,” he said. “But I have never lost a battle. You will not change that. Still—tell me your name. I wish to know who wounded my lord.”

  The man laughed. “Names mean nothing. What matters is this—House Blackmoor ends today.”

  Haul lay on the ground, pain searing through him. I am not done, he thought. I will fight—for my dream, my kingdom, my people.

  He rose, sword shaking in his grip.“You came for me?” Haul shouted. “Then come kill me—because if you don’t, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  The man turned, smiling.

  “My lord, you’ll die!” Eamon cried.

  “Then fight by my side,” Haul howled back.

  “Gladly.”

  They charged together. The man struck Eamon aside, then turned on Haul. Steel clashed. Sparks flew. Haul staggered back, raised his sword to his face, and whispered, “Aetheris.”

  The world seemed to shudder. The ground cracked beneath his feet. In one blinding motion, Haul struck—clean, perfect.

  The man’s head fell to the ground.

  Eamon stared in disbelief. “What was that? And why the hell didn’t you do that at the start?”

  Haul helped him up. “Because how would I ever improve my swordplay if I used it every time?”

  Eamon laughed weakly and nodded.

  Haul looked out across the battlefield, where steel still rang and men still screamed.

  “The battle has only just begun, Eamon.”

  And the island echoed with the sound of war.