In the cool, breeze-filled night, Clayton walked slowly through the wreckage of his barracks. The bodies of fallen knights lay scattered, blood pooling in thick, inch-deep puddles across the shattered floor. The air hung heavy with the scent of iron and death. Clayton's mind reeled—why had this happened? These were the proud, battle-hardened knights of Umar. Yet here they lay, broken and defeated.
He moved carefully through the carnage, stepping over torn flesh and shattered armor. Memories crashed over him like relentless waves—the laughter that once echoed through the dining hall, the tall tales spun around the fire pit nestled among their beds, the endless brotherly pranks and roughhousing that had filled this place with life. His heart sank with grief, and despite his best efforts to hold back the tears, they spilled freely as he dropped to his knees, broken.
Behind him, Francisco watched, keeping his distance. He fought the urge to step forward, to comfort the young knight in his pain. But this was a moment Clayton needed to face alone. So instead, Francisco lifted his pan flute and played a soft, haunting melody—an ancient song known as the Herald of Peace, traditionally played to honor fallen warriors.
The notes floated through the night, carried on the wind, wrapping around Clayton like a gentle embrace. Slowly, the crushing weight of sorrow eased, replaced by a calm release. Clayton rose, wiping his cheeks, and met Francisco's eyes. With a grateful nod, he acknowledged the quiet comfort.
Before either could speak, the thunder of horse hooves shattered the stillness. A rider came charging through the rubble toward the front gate, reining his horse to a harsh stop. Without dismounting, he strode purposefully through the wreckage, his gaze fixed on Clayton.
Recognizing the armor and bearing, Clayton snapped to attention. This was a high-ranking holy Umar knight—one typically only seen in the capital or on dangerous hunts. Quickly, Francisco shifted back into the form he'd used to evade the villagers, blending into the shadows.
The knight removed his helmet, revealing an older man with gray hair and a long scar slashing diagonally across his face. His single remaining eye gleamed with years of battle-hardened experience.
"What happened here?" he demanded, his voice stern. "Where are the others? Where is your commanding officer?"
Clayton swallowed hard, steadying himself. "A Gultonk attacked the barracks while we were returning from a situation in town."
The older knight's gaze narrowed. "Why was no one prepared? This destruction happened before sundown—ample light to spot such a creature."
Clayton's eyes dropped. "I do not have an answer, sir."
The knight strode among the bodies, his heavy boots crunching over splintered wood and broken bones. "Continue your report."
Clayton followed, signaling Francisco to slip away. Francisco backed into a shadowed alley, then quickened his pace. Passing the knight's warhorse—adorned with the gold and red seal of Umar—he caught its cold, piercing stare and felt a chill race down his spine.
Wanting to avoid the other knights who had ridden in, Francisco deftly weaved through the village's ruined streets. Soon, he reached the fallen Gultonk—its grotesque, twisted halves lying sprawled in the dirt.
Francisco's breath caught. He'd seen many strange and terrible things, but the stench and horror of this creature was nightmare fuel. The last time he encountered a Gultonk was high in the Kordon mountains, where they carved paths through rock and ice—creatures fierce but not this corrupted and vile.
He studied the battlefield signs, piecing together the struggle. Then he noticed fresh footprints—one set belonging to the young knight, but another heavier, steadier set, more skilled. Francisco snapped his fingers in realization: the cloaked adventurer with the greatsword must have fought alongside Clayton.
Turning to leave, Francisco didn't notice the looming figure in the shadows until a voice cut through the night. "Good evening, kind sir. Merely inspecting the scene, I am of a curious sort."
The figure stepped forward with deliberate pace. Panic struck Francisco as he looked down—his disguise showed worn, sunbaked hands and a stooped posture. He forced a wheeze and rub of his back, feigning age and infirmity.
But the figure loomed over him—towering, easily eight feet tall or more. One hand settled atop Francisco's head, muttering an incantation under breath.
Suddenly, Francisco's disguise shattered. His true form—a tall Nesfundru with curved horns, a long snout, and deep red scales shimmering in moonlight—was exposed.
Horror-struck, Francisco tried to flee, but the figure's blow struck him down cold.
From the shadows emerged three knights. They seized Francisco, snapping cold iron shackles on his wrists.