Sir Rowan, still on his big horse, surveyed the crowd. "Villagers," he called out, voice carrying clearly even though he wasn't using any magic, "we come in peace. We only seek to speak with the head of this village. A small negotiation."
His tone was smooth and even, but there was something cold and forced about it. The villagers exchanged nervous glances. They whispered quietly among themselves, confused by this knight's words. A few brave souls squared their shoulders. Some of the men shifted their stance as if preparing for trouble.
From the edge of the crowd, several middle-aged villagers finally stepped forward together. These were sturdy men used to hard work, but not to war. They wore simple homespun tunics and belts, not armor. With grim determination on their faces, they did something incredible: each man suddenly produced a shimmering weapon.
The weapons looked almost spiritual, made of crystal or glass in their translucent, ghostly appearance. One man gripped a sword that rippled in the air, as if alive. Another raised a bow that seemed carved out of faint light, his arrow ready on the string. A third had a round shield that flickered with an inner glow, edges glowing softly. It was a magic of some sort, obvious from the faint hum in the air. These men had summoned those weapons in an instant, protecting their people with courage on their side.
Sir Rowan laughed at this sight, low and amused. "Oh, come now," he said mockingly, voice carrying a hint of mocking kindness. He lifted his hand theatrically. "I told you, we come in peace. Besides… those weak little toys of yours wouldn't stand a chance against me."
At once, he drew from the air his own weapon. With a flash of scarlet light, a long, deadly sword appeared in his gauntleted hand. Sir Rowan held a magnificent longsword that pulsed with power. The blade's steel was etched with crimson runes that glowed against the polished metal. It radiated heat, making the air around it shimmer as if mirages danced over the red-hot edges.
Terrified, Brad tried to step back, but Sir Rowan's hand shot out. In one quick motion, he grabbed Brad by the hair and jerked his head up. Brad's neck was snapped almost painfully backward as the knight lifted him roughly. Brad felt tears start in his eyes from the sudden pain and fear. Hot breath puffed against the side of his face. Sir Rowan pressed the hot, sharp point of his glowing longsword against Brad's throat.
Brad's heart pounded so hard in his chest that he thought Sir Rowan could hear it. He dared not move or cry out. He was being used as a hostage—if anything happened to Sir Rowan or his men, Brad would be the one who suffered.
Sir Rowan looked around at the villagers with a cruel smile. "See?" he said with terrible calmness, dripping each word. "I even have a hostage." He caressed Brad's hair back down, his icy blue eyes still mocking. "Try anything, and this boy dies."
A collective gasp rose from the villagers. The men at the front tightens their grips on their magical weapons, fists clenching. Anger blazed in their eyes, but they glanced at the blade at Brad's throat and quickly realized it was hopeless. They couldn't risk the boy's life.
One of the men, red-faced and trembling, shot an angry glare at the knight. "You...you evil bastard!" he shouted, his voice breaking with fury and fear.
Sir Rowan's smirk only grew. "Insults won't help you now," he said, voice as cold as ice. The red runes on his sword pulsed once, as if mocking the villagers' courage.
At that moment, every villager felt a small crack in their hope. Slowly, one by one, the men lowered their weapons. The magical swords, bows, and shields dissolved into nothingness like mist. In the tight silence that followed, the villagers stood empty-handed, empty-hearted, and utterly helpless against Sir Rowan's menace.
Just when despair threatened to settle in their hearts, a new figure stepped forward at the back of the crowd. Heads turned as one. All eyes fell on him.
He was tall, at least six feet, with a broad, muscular build that made even Sir Rowan's heavy armor look modest. The man was clad in a long, hooded black coat that came down to his boots. The hood was pulled low, shadowing his eyes and most of his face. Only the lower half of his face was visible: strong and square, with tightly-pressed lips that looked like they hadn't smiled in a long time. He didn't hold a weapon that anyone could see, yet he radiated an aura of unshakable confidence.
In a calm, deep voice that echoed over the silent crowd, he asked, "What do you really want?"
Sir Rowan's burning eyes flicked up to this newcomer. His grin broadened into a smirk. The villagers stared nervously at the stranger, not sure if he was friend or foe, but hopeful. The brave man in black didn't flinch. His challenge hung in the air between them.
Sir Rowan let out a cold laugh. "What do we want?" he repeated loudly, as if speaking to a kindergarten class. His eyes glittered with malice as he spoke. "We want to take over your village. We want to burn it to the ground. We want to kill every one of you and build our settlement here in your place."
Sickening gasps rippled through the crowd. The villagers clasped each other's hands. Mothers pressed their children to their chests, and some stepped forward defensively. Anger and fear battled inside each of them. Finally, one old farmer at the front clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. The villager who had cursed Sir Rowan before stepped up from the line, pointing a trembling finger at the knights.
"You motherfucker!" the man yelled, spittle flying. "How dare you threaten our home and our children!"
Sir Rowan's smile turned cruel. His lips twisted as he leaned down through the space between his men's formation. His sword still rested at Brad's neck, but he seemed unfazed by the outburst. "Don't move," Sir Rowan said in a voice colder than the pond at midnight. The sharp tip of the red-silver sword pressed even harder against Brad's throat, forcing the boy's head to arch back slightly. "Or the boy dies."
Brad's wide blue eyes watered with terror. He looked at Sir Rowan and then at the crowd. The villagers saw Brad's fear-stricken face and their resolve flickered.
The stranger in black stood his ground. In fact, a small, tense smile crept onto his lips. As if he knew something nobody else did. He stepped forward again. "Fazer!" he commanded, voice strong and authoritative.