Horizon of War Series

Twin Shadows Over Eclipse

Eclipse Castle, Lubina City

A young squire walked briskly inside the lavish corridors lit by gemstones emitting a soft white glow, his bright doublet tailored for tonight's gala fluttering with each step. The air carried the faint aroma of spiced wine and sweet ale, remnants of the ongoing festivities. Echoes of lively conversation, laughter, and the distant strains of stringed instruments drifted from the hall, blending into a warm cheerful melody.

Finely plastered walls flanked the corridor and intricately carved pillars adorned with gilded frames that reflected the shimmering light from above. Guards stationed at regular intervals recognized the squire as he passed, offering no resistance. The muffled hum of the gala lingered behind him as he ventured deeper into the quieter part of the palace, finally arriving at the resting chamber.

The chamber was designed solely for the Lord’s convenience, offering a private space to rest between events in the adjacent Great Hall. It allowed him to change clothes, relieve himself, or refine his appearance. Previous lords of the castle had sometimes used it for less noble pursuits, indulging in sensual pleasures with guests, fueling whispers of debauchery and infidelity among the local elites.

However, only a handful of men occupied the space today, flanking a visibly worried Lord Reginald, who sat stiffly in front of a large mirror.

The squire entered quietly, the door opened for him by a guard on duty.

"Is he ready?" the squire whispered anxiously to the servant near the door.

"Not yet," the servant replied in hushed tones.

"He’s the Lord of this castle. They can wait," a senior guardsman interjected firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

The exchange near the door drew the attention of three nobles inside. One of the Lord’s advisors, a large man with an imposing frame dressed in a purple doublet, finally urged, "It’s time."

Another, wearing a white wig, quickly added enthusiastically, "Are you ready, My Lord?"

"Yes, I’m ready," Lord Reginald replied, rising from his chair in a less-than-elegant manner.

"You understand why this is necessary?" the large man in purple demanded.

"I’m aware," Reginald snapped, irritation flashing as he straightened his party clothes.

From the side, the white wig reminded gently, "We must reassure our allies of our strength and commitment."

"Yes, yes," Reginald said, waving a hand dismissively. "I’ll keep them in line. This southern barbarians’ attack is nothing but a diversion. The real issue remains Bengrieve, but soon, we should have good news from Cascasonne." His tone shifted as he recited what would become his talking points for the evening.

"Excellent. That’s exactly what they need to hear," the advisor in purple exclaimed, his tone finally brimming with assured confidence. "Now go and charm them with your wits."

Reginald exhaled deeply. With a flick of his wrist, his expression shifted into one of regal composure. His men opened the door, allowing the Lord of the castle to step outside. His entourage flanked him immediately, escorting him toward the castle’s Great Hall through the Lord's private entrance.

The hall was more like a palace than a fortress. It soared high and airy, its walls adorned with busts of previous lords, sculpted from marble and bronze. Beneath their steps, the lustrous black marble floor gleamed under the soft glow of gemstone chandeliers. It was a magnificent space, crafted to awe and impress.

The throng of nobles gathered there was certainly impressed, bowing their heads low in deference to the Lord. Despite his status as a new ruler and largely a puppet of his allies, Lord Reginald moved gracefully among them, exchanging pleasantries. He smiled warmly at the crowd, offering calculated, reassuring words to those who needed them. His movements were deliberate, his intellectual charm wielded with precision as he made his way toward the high table.

Finally seated, flanked by his guards and entourage, Lord Reginald raised his goblet high and declared, "Let the feast begin!"

The guests, seated at several long tables divided along the left and right sides of the hall, erupted into merriment as they began their meal. Platters of pickled meats, roasted forest duck, and spiced venison adorned the tables, accompanied by an endless variety of bread, honey, jams, and an abundance of dried fruits.

The hall’s expansive floor stretched between the high table and the rows of guests, providing ample space for entertainment. Lively music, played by a small troupe of musicians stationed in the corner, set a joyful rhythm. A dozen dancers twirled and leaped with infectious energy, their laughter and cheers blending seamlessly with the melodies and capturing the guests’ attention as they feasted lavishly.

In contrast, the host barely touched his meal, sipping only from his goblet of spiced wine. Lord Reginald's irritation was evident. Several of his strongest allies had abandoned him, chastising his decision to send assassins to Lowlandia. Unlike them, they failed to grasp the nuanced art of realpolitik. He sought to treat threats before they could fester like wounds, starting with Bengrieve and trickling down to the minor upstart, Lansius.

He viewed his allies as short-sighted, concerned only with fleeting security and immediate gains. He, however, was a visionary, imagining Midlandia as a dominant power, with its neighbors bowing in submission. Even the barbaric lords to the south would yield.

Unfortunately, the path forward was fraught with peril. His opponent, the so-called Black Lord, had rallied his barbarians in a counterattack, forcing Reginald to squander precious time just to regain his people's confidence. He sighed heavily, whispering to himself, "The fools should just follow," before taking another deliberate sip of his wine.

...

The feast carried on until everyone was sated. Then, fulfilling his promise, Lord Reginald mingled with the crowd, forming an impromptu court.

A group of landlords and merchants wasted no time. "My Lord," one began, "we yearn to hear about the fighting. Rumors have been circulating—"

"Unsubstantiated nonsense," Lord Reginald interrupted with a dismissive smile. "Have you seen their so-called army? A rabble of brainless barbarians," he sneered, pausing as soft chuckles rippled through the group.

He quickly added, "Reports of their advance are exaggerated, spread by spineless cowards placed in command by the last seneschal. Either they were disloyal or simply incompetent. We ought not to lend our ears to such drivel."

A merchant, emboldened by the atmosphere, ventured, "Then, My Lord, we should expect this trouble to fade soon?"

"Indeed," the Lord replied smoothly. "No amount of gold stored in Cascasonne could turn a band of goat herders into an army capable of standing against Midlandia’s finest. Their primitive raids cannot challenge the mettle of our knights."

His words placated many, but a cluster of knights and esquires families remained unconvinced. Sensing this, the Lord turned to them. "This Lansius is nothing more than a name whispered to frighten peasants. A black-haired nobody who outwitted a band of dimwits made up of uneducated goat herders. He may be cunning in the wilderness, but he will crumble on the more complex battlefields of Midlandia."

The knights exchanged glances before nodding, their confidence seemingly bolstered.

Turning back to the crowd, Lord Reginald asked, "Have you heard? This so-called Black Lord even married his own squire."

His words drew soft chuckles and scattered giggles from the gathered nobles.

"He’s nothing but an inelegant brute, hardly worthy of our fears," the Lord exclaimed, clearly pleased by their reaction.

When the mood strongly shifted in his favor, Lord Reginald straightened and declared boldly, "Let him come." The crowd stilled, their eyes fixed on him with growing intensity. "The southern roads are treacherous, the forests unforgiving, and our walled cities stand unassailable. By the time they reach us, they’ll be battered and broken."

A merchant with a reddened face raised his goblet in mock celebration. "To their long and miserable march!"

Laughter erupted throughout the hall, filling the grand space. But as the merriment reached its peak, a commotion broke out near the entrance. Shouts rang out, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel. The crowd’s mirth dissolved into murmurs of alarm as heads snapped toward the noise.

Several guards struggled against shadowy figures who quickly overpowered them. Gasps and whispers rippled through the hall, anxiety spreading like wildfire. Guests instinctively backed away from the entrance, forming a widening circle of empty space. The once-lively music stopped abruptly, leaving a heavy silence that only deepened the tension.

Lord Reginald’s guards inside sprang into action, rushing across the now-cleared center of the hall toward the disturbance. From outside, however, emerged a group of noble-looking gentlemen in finely tailored attire, their calm demeanor strikingly at odds with the chaos outside, where the sounds of clashing steel and shouts still echoed. Moments later, the gate was sealed shut behind them.

The four intruders, with their polished appearance and composed movements, brought a sense of relief to the onlookers, who began to hope the disruption was merely a misunderstanding or perhaps a surprise for tonight’s feast.

"Please remain calm," the youngest of them said smoothly, stepping forward on behalf of the others. His voice was charming yet authoritative. "We only ask for an audience."

The six guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances before turning to their lord for guidance. This reaction did not escape the intruders' notice, who, never having seen Reginald before, now had their target.

Sensing potential trouble, Lord Reginald and his advisors quickly signaled for reinforcements. More guards poured into the hall from the lord’s private entrance, weapons at the ready, while curious servants peeked out from the kitchen doors, drawn by the commotion.

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Building on the young man’s introduction, a tall, well-built figure in black brigandine stepped forward. "I am Knight-Captain Morton of the Three Hill's Black Knights," he declared coldly.

His identity shocked everyone. Lord Reginald shook his head in disbelief, while his advisors in white wig and purple doublets scrambled to issue commands to the guards and squires.

Unperturbed by their reaction, Sir Morton turned to the gathered nobles, his tone noticeably softened as he spoke. "On behalf of the Lord Shogun of Korelia and the five Lords of Lowlandia, please accept our heartfelt greetings, esteemed nobles of Midlandia."

The six determined guards ignored him and charged. Their actions prompted the young man and two other well-dressed gentlemen to pull slim but boxy crossbows from beneath their cloaks. With practiced ease, they unleashed a hail of bolts, surprising everyone.

The hall plunged into chaos. Three guards crumpled like ragdolls, their bodies pierced by bolts that penetrated their ringmail. Wounded, they desperately tried to crawl away, their torsos and limbs riddled with feathered shafts. The remaining three guards retreated, diving behind upturned tables hastily set by their allies.

"We're not bandits. No one needs to get hurt," Sir Morton said calmly almost devoid of emotion, his hands still empty of a weapon. Behind him, his men casually reloaded their crossbows, sliding bolts into the box-like mechanisms atop their weapons.

A large group of guards arrived, led by the tallest among them, clad in golden-hued ringmail. He stood like a champion, wielding a rarely seen trident.

Sir Morton, unbothered, continued, "The Lord Shogun and the army of Lowlandia are currently in Cascasonne and will soon pacify the region. We hope for future cooperation. House Bengrieve has promised the Lord Shogun all of southern Midlandia, including every land allied with Sir Reginald in this conflict."

"You speak madness!" bellowed the large advisor in purple, seizing command from the dispirited Lord Reginald. "Guards, kill them all!"

The champion wasted no time. With a quick glance at the wounded guards, he grabbed a large silver serving plate, wielding it as an improvised shield. Letting out a loud rallying cry, he led a dozen guards in a ferocious charge.

The three intruders fired their bolts with deadly accuracy, but the guards pressed on, using chairs and platters as makeshift shields. Meanwhile, the champion charged directly at Sir Morton. The man in black brigandine stood motionless, his sword still undrawn.

The champion closed the distance in a few powerful strides and thrust his trident with blinding speed, aiming straight for his opponent's chest. Yet, with unnerving ease, Sir Morton sidestepped, his footwork precise. The trident’s razor-sharp tips missed by a hair. Undeterred, the champion followed up with another thrust, but the knight in black dodged again. There was no fear in his eyes—only an unsettling excitement.

The champion feinted, drawing his weapon back for a wide swing, but Sir Morton stepped inside his reach and delivered a single, devastating punch to the champion's stomach. The golden ringmail shuddered under the force of the blow. There was no thunderous sound, but the impact was evident as the large man gasped, spittle flying, and stood momentarily frozen, paralyzed by the pain pulsating from his abdomen.

Without hesitation, Sir Morton grabbed both the champion's shoulders and threw him to the ground in a fluid motion, his wrestling technique brutal but efficient. Gasps filled the hall as every eye turned to the fallen champion.

The rest of the guards scattered and disorganized, faltered under the unyielding accuracy of the crossbowmen. A few had cornered the younger man into melee, but even there, the intruder held the upper hand.

"As I said, no one needs to get hurt. This isn't a robbery," Sir Morton reiterated, disdain coloring his voice. But his warning fell on deaf ears.

"Keep fighting!" the advisor in purple commanded, addressing the freshly arrived guards. They hesitated, still struggling to comprehend how so many of their comrades, including their champion, had been defeated by just four men.

"The castle garrison will soon come!" added his fellow in the white wig, though his voice trembled with desperation.

A sudden crash of breaking glass shattered the tension. Vibrant shards of stained glass rained down from above, scattering across the floor like jagged, multicolored jewels. People below screamed in surprise, diving out of the way to avoid the falling debris. Panic spread, but one man froze, his gaze locked on the shattered window. His mouth fell open as he raised a trembling finger, pointing toward the empty stone frame.

Others followed his gaze, their expressions shifting into silent horror. Three large silhouettes loomed in the opening. Their presence was unmistakable as, one by one, the creatures leaped inside. Their clawed hands flexed as they landed with uncanny grace, their swiveling ears attuned to the panicked cries around them.

Under the bright glow of the Great Hall’s chandeliers, the people's suspicions were confirmed—they were seeing Beastmen.

All three bore the unmistakable features of wolves: piercing eyes, snarling muzzles, and sharp fangs glinting in the light. Their silvery fur, draped in shimmering ringmail, shifted fluidly with their movements as they strode upright on two powerful legs.

Amid the gasps and shrieks of the ladies fleeing the chamber in terror, leaving only the bravest nobles rooted in place, the largest beastly creature pulled a torn banner from his shoulder and threw it to the floor. The coat of arms revealed it to be the banner of the castle garrison.

In an act of blatant mockery, the creature urinated on the banner, drawing howls of laughter from his kin and the intruders, who now made it abundantly clear that they were in alliance.

"What took you so long?" Sir Morton asked as he approached, magically blowing the putrid stench toward Reginald's direction. The remaining guards and squires scrambled to form a hasty barricade in front of Lord Reginald, whose complexion had turned deathly pale.

"We got a little bloodlust; and a little lost," the largest Beastman admitted.

The creature's words only deepened the confusion among the onlookers. Meanwhile, Sir Morton turned his predatory gaze toward the nobles. "No help is coming. Now, it’s time to listen." He paused, letting the tension settle. "In light of Lord Reginald's attempt on Lord Shogun's life—sending three assassins—and with evidence and sealed statements from the captured assailants, we hereby declare a right of reprisal. Hand over Lord Reginald, and we will leave in peace."

Lord Reginald’s lips trembled, his knees shaking.

"They're lying! Stay steadfast! Even if the castle garrison is struck, we still have the city garrison—" The man in purple's desperate shout was abruptly cut short as his mouth fell open as his body lurching backward. The largest Beastman leaped high and crashed down on him with a thunderous stomp, leaving the advisor bloodied on the floor. But it didn’t end there. As the guards resisted, the Beastman went berserk. With devastating force, it swatted them aside, hurling bodies into the walls. The sickening crack of bones and cries of pain echoed through the hall.

"We only intend to capture Sir Reginald alive," Sir Morton's voice boomed unnaturally loud, carrying a distinct current of wind; a sign of magic. "Do not force us to change our plans."

Yet the remaining guards, numbering more than ten, stood resolute. "They won't get away! Nobody escapes alive!" the guard captain rallied his men. With determined cries, they charged at the lone Beastman, their weapons thrusting forward. But the other two Beastmen joined the fray, wielding large, knife-like swords, turning the fight into a bloody melee.

The rest of the nobles gulped, swallowing their pride as they fled to the far side of the hall, desperate to distance themselves from the carnage. The advisor in the white wig had vanished entirely, leaving only a handful of loyal men urging Lord Reginald to retreat. Worse, Sir Morton and his men were closing in.

With trembling hands, Reginald opened his mouth and stammered, "Protect me!"

His knees threatened to buckle as he watched his entourage scatter, leaving only three behind. The guardsmen in the hall were being defeated one by one, proving themselves useless against the Beastmen.

As Sir Morton drew closer, the lone guard and two squires exchanged nervous glances before duty forced them to act. With a burst of resolve, they launched themselves at him. At that moment, Lord Reginald caught a fleeting smile on Morton’s face. And in that instant, he knew he was doomed.

A heavy thud echoed behind him, and a massive shadow loomed over Reginald. He turned to see a towering figure streaked with darkened blood, his face marred by the jagged scar of a deep arrow wound.

"You’re not getting away!" the Beastman roared. "Your capture shall cleanse my shame."

"My Lord!" Another noble, likely a knight, charged in from the side, wielding a spear he had grabbed from nearby. He thrust at the beastman, attempting to bait him away from Reginald.

Meanwhile, Sir Morton caught one squire by the arm and hurled him into his companion, sending both skidding across the marble floor. The lone guard, now kneeling, choked and gasped for air, his hands clawing at his own throat as the mage-knight ruthlessly used his magic to pull the breath from his lungs.

Witnessing the chaos, Reginald bolted, pumping his legs toward the servant's kitchen entrance. Escape was all that mattered now. The door and corridor were narrow—too tight for the beastmen to follow. If he could reach it, the danger would surely pass. But suddenly, a powerful hand gripped his silken cape, yanking him backward and sending him sprawling onto his back.

He gasped, the cape tightening around his neck, cutting off his breath.

"Puny human, my gratitude for attempting to run. It allows me to have some fun," the Beastman ominously chuckled before suddenly lifting Reginald to his chest and squeezing the man in a crushing hug that threatened to break his bones.

Reginald could only scream in pain. At this point, the fighting ceased entirely. Even the brave knight wielding the spear raised his hands, signaling surrender.

"We're only here for Sir Reginald. The Lord Shogun wishes no harm upon the other nobles," Sir Morton reassured the crowd as he approached the beastman, who still held the current Lord of Midlandia tightly against its ringmail-covered chest.

"What do you intend to do now?" the knight asked, his tone weary. "Using him as a hostage to force Lubina to surrender won’t work."

"I know," Sir Morton replied calmly. "I know you’re mostly knights, esquires, or landlords without real influence or manpower. This man's puppet master is somewhere else—safe and hidden."

"If you know, then why bother? The city garrison, numbering several thousand men, is under their control. The city won’t surrender," the knight argued.

"That decision is not mine to make," Sir Morton replied, motioning for the Beastman to release Reginald.

The Beastman promptly lowered the trembling, shriveled man onto the floor.

Without a shred of pity, Sir Morton grabbed Reginald by the belt and hoisted him face down like a sack of luggage, holding him effortlessly in one hand.

"Help me! Midlandians, think about your future!" Reginald cried out, desperation thick in his voice as the grim reality dawned on him.

No one moved. The knight with the spear and the rest of the nobles averted their gazes in shame as the intruders opened the entrance doors, revealing another group of armed men in black waiting outside.

The chill night wind blew upon Reginald, making him even more frantic. "Don’t just stand there! Rally your spirit and—" His plea was abruptly silenced as a young man stepped forward with an unsettling smile and gagged him with a piece of cloth.

"Nicely done, Sterling," Sir Morton said with approval.

"Can’t have him squealing all the way back," Sterling replied, his thin smile lingering as they retreated into the grand courtyard.

...

Outside, the aftermath of a fierce battle lay scattered before them. Dozens of guards were sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath their bodies and staining the stone.

"Crossbowmen, beware!" the SAR team behind cover shouted in warning.

Sir Morton recited his verses, and an ethereal shield of violent wind swirled to life around them. The timing couldn’t have been better—a volley of bolts rained down from one of the towers, whistling sharply through the air. Several bolts veered off course as they hit the barrier, their trajectories shifting before landing on the castle grounds.

The SAR lieutenant ran beside him. "It’s getting livelier. More are gathering."

"Do we have wounded?" Sir Morton asked.

"Three men—lacerations," the lieutenant reported.

"Pull back," Sir Morton ordered, his sharp gaze locking on Big Ben, the male half-breed, and his kin to ensure they heard him. "The mission is complete."

The three half-beasts nodded and sprinted into the darkness, their keen eyes matching Morton's in the dim light. They took different routes, knowing the gatehouse interior was too cramped for them.

Beside Morton, the SAR lieutenant nodded, visibly relieved, and began signaling his men to fall back. They had chosen this daring plan over a late-night attack because it was the only reliable way to identify Reginald. Moreover, the feast had distracted the guards with the constant comings and goings of guests. However, it had also cost them the element of stealth.

But the gamble had paid off. They ran through the near darkness toward the gatehouse, their every step haunted by the fear of crossbow fire from the towers. The faint glow of lanterns, placed by their allies, served as their only guide. Above the gatehouse, the airships hovered unseen, waiting.

"Sir Captain!" shouted one of the Black Knights holding the gatehouse, hurrying to join them.

"Yes?" Sir Morton responded calmly, even as bolts hissed past.

"The city garrison is mobilizing, columns of men are marching toward the gate."

"We'll make it," the captain replied, his tone dismissive, unshaken by the news.

The knight, accustomed to his captain’s calm demeanor, added, "When we secured the gatehouse complex, we found two chests of gold and silver."

"Gold?" the SAR lieutenant asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

"Indeed, likely war chests or something similar. We didn’t have the chance to ask, but they certainly defended it with their lives."

"When fortune smiles, don’t waste it. Bring them with us," Sir Morton instructed, still carrying Reginald, who had grown quiet from the strain of being hoisted so unceremoniously.

"It’s going to be heavy," Sterling remarked, his gaze flicking to the additional burden as they ran.

"With two ships, we’ll make it," Sir Morton replied, unflinching as two more bolts zipped past, one narrowly missing a SAR team member. "We’ll crash-land in Cascasonne if we have to," he added, a brief, predatory smile tugging at his lips.

Overhead, the night wind picked up speed, while the city of Lubina erupted into chaos, its distant roar carrying on the cold air.

***

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