Pushing aside the flaps of his tent, Count Rimmon Wyvern stormed out with long, urgent strides. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath quickening as he made his way to the ridge overlooking the battlefield.
Then he saw it.
His eyes went wide, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. The sky was a canvas of chaos—flaming boulders arced through the air like falling stars, blackening the clouds in their wake. Arrows rained down in thick sheets, almost blotting out the sky. Below, the camp was a writhing massacre: wolves, lean and blood-flecked, tore through screaming men.
And then came the cavalry.
Hulking warriors rode in, mounted on beasts that seemed pulled from the pages of myth—massive hybrids of eagle and bear, with thunderous wings and furred limbs that pounded the earth. Their riders horned helmets, their armours too dark to reflect light, and their lances punched through plate and leather alike, impaling two, three men in a single charge.
It wasn’t just the brutality that shook Rimmon—it was the banners.
Black flags, snapping violently in the wind, bore the unmistakable symbol: a white wolf’s head.
Rimmon’s breath caught in his throat. His voice cracked.
“Isn’t he dead?” he whispered, almost to himself. “They said he was dead…”
That was the word, wasn’t it? That he had fallen, grievously wounded, teetering on the brink of death. That he would never rise again. They had toasted to it in the halls of nobles. Rimmon had paraded his victory, bathed in compliments and false smiles, celebrated for outliving the only man to ever strike down one of his wyverns.
And yet—there they were.
His men. His vaunted warriors. Slain like cattle.
Two more wyverns downed in smoke and screams.
His battle lines fractured, his flanks shattered, his strategy undone.
And all of it unraveling under that cursed white wolf’s banner.
Rimmon’s face twisted into rage. “Have the Intis air cavalry reinforce them!” he bellowed, nostrils flaring.
But then a voice spoke—calm, firm, and final.
“Duke Asher is also there.”
Silence.
Rimmon froze mid-breath.
The white wolf… present? On this field?
The Duke of Ashbourne.
The predator of the battlefield.
The man who had never lost a war.
A cold chill seized Rimmon’s spine. His jaw clenched, fury warring with fear. But in the end, only one won.
“Withdraw,” he said, voice barely more than a breath. Then louder, with bitter finality:
“Withdraw this instant.”
Moments later, a deep, thunderous horn echoed across the field. Its mournful wail rolled through the sky like the cry of a dying beast, and the soldiers of the United Army began to fall back. The same way they had surged forth like a tidal wave, so too did they recede—swift, disciplined, yet with their groaning wounded.
“Open the gate!” General Clegane roared from atop the ramparts, his voice carrying through the chill air as he descended the stone steps two at a time.
Commander of the Dark Skies regiment, Clegane had steeled himself for a glorious last stand, prepared to bleed and die with his men in defense of Castle Black. He had watched the enemy approach with relentless force, and when the unknown war machines appeared beyond the hills, his heart had clenched in fear.
Towering engines of death—strange constructs of steel and fire—had crested the battlefield. He had expected doom.
But then they turned—not toward the castle, but against the United Army.
And above them flew a banner that banished despair in an instant.
The wolves.
A silver-white wolf’s head on a field of black.
House Ashbourne.
Hope surged through his chest like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. Yet beneath that warmth bloomed a core of unease. Those machines—those impossible, wrathful things—they defied understanding. Their movements were too precise, too fluid. Their power was terrifying. The air itself had seemed to tremble with their arrival.
Ashbourne’s miracles were the stuff of whispered legend. Each invention more blasphemous and brilliant than the last. Every tale dismissed as exaggeration—until seen.
His boots struck hard against the flagstones as he reached courtyard. Before the massive gates stood the Nubis Infantry, the last bastion of the castle’s defense. Clad in glimmering full plate of masterwork steel and draped in deep sapphire cloaks, they stood in formation like statues—resolute, proud, immovable.
They were the kind of soldiers who didn’t speak unless ordered, the kind who were expected to hold when every other line had shattered.
General Clegane halted before them, hand resting on the hilt of his blade, the other at ease by his side. His bearing was straight and proud, a living embodiment of his order.
“We’re receiving our ally,” he said calmly, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest. “Show them the discipline of the Nubis. Stand as if the eyes of the Realm are upon you.”
He did not need to add more. They already were.
With a deep, resonant thud, the iron gates began to pull inward. And even before they fully parted, a tall, jet-black stallion emerged through the narrowing gap—its hooves striking the ground with impatience. Upon its back rode a lone rider, his snow-white hair, a stark flame against his horse. He came first—like a herald of the imminent—before the full force behind him was revealed.Towering men astride eagle-bears rode in tight formation behind the lone stallion.
Their dreadfully wrought armor gleamed with soot and blood, and the sheer size of both rider and mount made even the elite Nubis infantry—seasoned veterans clad in fine plate and noble blue cloaks—gasp aloud.
Were those truly men?
They seemed more like giants of legend, brings of absurd size and rage . And then, an eerie sensation swept through the air. Was it the aftershock of the battle—or had the temperature truly risen?
A stifling wave of heat seemed to roll from beyond the gate, like the breath of a furnace, causing sweat to bead on brows and necks beneath helms.
Then, with a steadying breath, General Clegane Nubis stepped forward, his voice ringing with discipline.
“Duke Asher of House Ashbourne. I am General Clegane Nubis, cousin to Duke Vladimir Nubis. Welcome to Castle Black.”
He bowed low. The infantry followed in swift, synchronized reverence.
Clip. Clop.
The hooves of the black stallion rang sharply against the stone slabs as it came to a halt just a meter from Clegane. The rider’s pale hair shone like moonlight in contrast to the black steel of his armor.
“Apologies for our untimely arrival, General Clegane,” said Asher, his tone cool yet measured.
Clegane allowed a thin smile to crack his war-hardened face. Just that single sentence told him all he needed—this was a man he could trust in battle, one he could stand beside without fear of bearing a grudge.
Lifting his head, the general replied, “There are matters that trouble a duke. But we yet live. And as long as we draw breath, there is still a chance to turn the tides.”
“There is,” Asher answered, his voice deepening.