The village slept under a moonless sky when the world began to unravel.
Evelyn stirred on the cold floor beside her cousin's bed, tangled in a threadbare blanket. Isolde's quiet breathing was the only sound until the stillness was broken.
It started subtly—hoofbeats, far off. Then came a sharp cry. Then another. The distant clang of metal rang out across the still fields.
Evelyn sat up, heart hammering.
Suddenly, the front door slammed open.
Beatrice stormed in, her braid half-unraveled, eyes wild with fear. "Get up! Now! They're here—the enemy soldiers!"
Evelyn scrambled upright as Isolde whimpered, clutching her blanket.
Outside, chaos reigned. Torches flickered between houses. Screams echoed across the valley. Fires began licking at rooftops, the smoke curling into the black sky.
Beatrice grabbed isolade's hand and shout, "To the woods. Don't stop. Don't look back!"
But Evelyn hesitated at the threshold—because through the thickening smoke, she saw Sir Aldric.
The old knight stood near the village well, sword in hand, still dressed in his simple tunic, his hair silver in the firelight. Blood trailed from a wound at his side, soaking the hem of his shirt, but he stood firm.
A small group of villagers huddled behind him, including children and elders.
He raised his sword as enemy riders charged in. "Back, you devils!" he barked, voice hoarse but unyielding.
He fought like a man half his age, blade clashing against steel, holding the line alone. For a moment, he drove them back—but the wound slowed him. His knee gave out.
"Aldric!" Evelyn gasped, taking a step forward.
"No!" A pair of arms grabbed her—it was the baker's wife. "He told me to take you if it ever came to this. He said you must run."
...Aldric's sword swung in one last, defiant arc—then he collapsed to his knees, breath ragged.
Evelyn broke free from the baker's wife and rushed to him, stumbling through smoke and ash. The world around them blurred in fire and panic, but all she saw was Aldric, crumpled yet upright, like an old tree refusing to fall.
She dropped beside him. "Sir Aldric—!"
His eyes, still sharp though dimmed, found her. "Evelyn," he rasped, coughing softly. "You stubborn girl... you shouldn't be here."
"You're bleeding—let me—" Her hands hovered helplessly over the gash at his side.
"It's too late for that." He reached up, his hand trembling, and brushed a soot-streaked curl from her cheek. "Listen to me, child. I need you to be brave now."
Tears slid down her face. "Don't speak like that. Please."
"You must take care of yourself," he whispered. "And that boy—our Aaron. He'll need you. More than he knows."
"I can't do this without you…"
He gave a faint, wheezing laugh. "You'll do more than you think. I've seen it in you, Evelyn Winterrose. You've got a spine of steel under all that softness."
Her lower lip trembled. "It isn't fair."
"No," he murmured. "But it's life. And I'm not afraid."
He drew a slow, rattling breath, eyes flicking to the sky. "Don't mourn too long. I had a good run. Got to raise a boy like him. Got to see you grow strong."
His hand tightened slightly around hers. "Tell him... I was proud. And tell him not to cry."
Evelyn tried to speak, but her voice cracked.
His eyes began to glaze, the firelight reflecting in them like stars. "Go now," he whispered. "Run. Live."
And then the breath left him.
Evelyn stayed frozen, crouched beside him, the roar of flames and screams of villagers echoing distantly in her ears. The old knight's hand had gone slack in hers, still warm but lifeless. For a moment, she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
He's gone.
The truth struck her like a blade through the ribs. Aldric—stern, kind, gruff Aldric—who always greeted her with a nod and a soft scolding, who taught Aaron how to stand tall, who called her a "stubborn girl" with something like affection in his eyes—was gone.
And she hadn't even said thank you.
How will I tell Aaron?
She could see his face in her mind—serious, sharp-eyed, always pretending to be braver than he felt. He didn't know. He was far away. Training. Fighting. Growing.
She wiped her face, not bothering to check the soot from her fingers. Her tears left streaks across her cheeks, but she didn't care.
I'll keep your word, old fellow. I'll protect him however I can. Even if I'm just a girl. Even if I'm scared.
She pressed a trembling hand to Aldric's chest, over the hilt of his sword. "Goodbye," she whispered. "Sleep well, old fellow."
Then she rose, stumbling as she turned from the fallen knight, the flames behind her lighting up the night sky.
The great hall of the royal keep stood cloaked in tension, its towering stained-glass windows doing little to soften the heavy silence. Flickering torches lined the stone walls, casting uneasy shadows on the faces of the king's most trusted advisors. The long oak table stretched between them, polished and immaculate—unlike the state of the kingdom.
King Theodren sat at the head, his expression stern, face pale under his silver crown. War had aged him in months. His once-vibrant gaze now dimmed with sleepless nights and endless decisions.
A young messenger had just delivered the report: another village struck near the eastern border. Fires, death, loss. This time it was the hamlet of Elderwood.
A ripple of murmurs moved through the council.
"More losses," growled Lord Haldran, his heavy fist slamming onto the table. "How long will we wait, Your Majesty? They torch our lands, slaughter our people—"
"We've already sent reinforcements," King Roderic said quietly, his fingers steepled under his chin. "But the enemy strikes like ghosts. Every time we defend one region, they slip through to another."
Lord Vellian, younger and silk-tongued, leaned forward. "Then we stop defending. We go on the offensive."
"The army is stretched thin," countered General Alric. "We've lost nearly a third of our trained soldiers. The boys in the camps are just that—boys."
"And if we wait, there won't be any land left to defend," Haldran snapped.
King Roderic closed his eyes, just for a moment. The weight of the crown felt heavier than ever.
"Our coffers are bleeding," said the Royal Treasurer. "Raising taxes would risk rebellion. Starvation is already spreading through the lowlands."
"Then we do what we must." The king's voice cut through the room. "Ready the decree. We march east. We strike at their heart."
There was a pause. Then nods. Reluctant, resigned, determined.
The king rose. "We may win a battle. We may not win the war. But we will not lie down while our people burn."
The room fell into a flurry of movement, messengers summoned, orders penned. The fate of the kingdom now rode on a desperate gamble.