The summons of the King was not a mere request; it was a thunderclap that echoed through the stone barracks, shaking the very foundations of the castle. The knights moved with practiced, rhythmic urgency, the clanking of their polished plate armor echoing through the torch-lit corridors as they converged on the Great Throne Room.
Even as the sun began to dip below the horizon—casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor—the King sat upon his gilded seat in radiant defiance of the gathering dark. Despite the silver streaks appearing in his beard and the weary lines around his eyes, His Majesty remained as formidable as the legends suggested. He sat motionless, a pillar of gold and iron amidst a sea of creeping twilight, his gaze fixed on the heavy oak doors.
The heavy silence of the hall was finally broken by the Viceroy. He stood to the King's right, a man of cold marble and sharp edges, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial rapier.
"The kingdom is under attack," the Viceroy announced, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "The mages sent to investigate the disturbances on our northern borders were ambushed with vicious intent. It was not a skirmish; it was a massacre. Those who remain are currently holding a desperate line against an unknown tide, sacrificing their lives so that a messenger could return to warn His Majesty of the coming storm."
He surveyed the assembled knights, his gaze heavy with the weight of the command he was about to deliver. "You have been gathered to launch a full-scale counter-offensive. You shall not ride alone; the mages of the tower will march alongside you, weaving their arts with your steel. We depart tomorrow when the sun reaches its zenith. Use the remaining hours to say your final prayers, whisper your goodbyes to those you love, and steel your hearts for the unknown. Return only when victory is secured and our borders are purged of this rot."
With a sharp, final gesture, he added, "You are dismissed."
The knights turned as one, departing the hall in a silent, orderly procession. To any observer, they looked like the pinnacle of strength, but the hollow clatter of their retreat sounded like the first drums of a funeral march.
The following morning, the sky was a pale, bruised purple, as if the heavens themselves were mourning the coming conflict. Arthur, a knight known throughout the realm as much for his unwavering devotion as his skill with a longsword, climbed the steep stone stairs of the Great Cathedral. Each step felt heavier than the last, a silent petition for the strength he knew he would soon need.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and ancient incense. Arthur knelt before the high altar, the cold stone biting into his knees through his leggings. Bowing his head, he let his voice skin the quiet air:
"Lord, please guide me in my darkest hour and help me achieve victory in this battle. I also pray for You to bless me with the courage and peace of mind to guide me in the conflict that lies ahead. I pray not for my own life, but for the safety of the young squires under my command and the wisdom to lead them through the valley of death."
After his prayers, Arthur sought out the High Priest, Bob, in the vestry. They spoke in familiar tones, the knight filling the man in on the grim reality of the Viceroy's report. Bob listened intently, his face etched with a deep, ancient sorrow.
"The light will guide you, Arthur," Priest Bob said, placing a steadying hand on the knight's shoulder. "But remember that even the sun must set before it can rise again. Do not let the darkness of the battle quench the light within your own soul."
Seeking a moment of stillness before the chaos of noon, Arthur found a high balcony that overlooked the valley. The golden light was just beginning to bleed over the horizon when he spotted a familiar, shadowed figure scaling the outer wall with the fluid, effortless grace of a mountain lion.
As the assassin, Sheng, pulled himself over the crenellations and onto the ledge, Arthur let out a short, dry breath of amusement.
"The architects built stairs for a reason, Sheng," Arthur said, not turning his head from the rising sun. "It is significantly easier on the joints."
Sheng stood and dusted off his dark, reinforced leathers, a faint, cynical smirk playing on his lips. "The stairs are for people who don't mind being predictable. I prefer to keep my muscles guessing and the guards wondering. Besides, the view is better when you've earned it by the grip of your own fingers."
As the two sat in a rare, companionable silence, they watched the sun ignite the sky into a sea of orange and gold. It was the kind of peace that usually preceded a disaster. Suddenly, the tranquil air began to hum with a sickening static energy. The hair on Arthur's arms stood up, and a metallic taste filled his mouth.
Without warning, a complex magic teleportation array erupted on the stone floor, glowing with a blinding, azure light. The power of it was so intense that it cracked the mortar between the stones. When the spots finally cleared from their eyes, a crumpled form lay in the center of the fading sigils.
Priest Bob, hearing the crackle of magical discharge, rushed from the sanctuary onto the balcony. Together, they rolled the man over. It was Elvric, a mage of immense renown and a long-time friend. His robes were charred as if he had been struck by lightning, and a deep, jagged gash ran across his shoulder, weeping a strange, darkened blood.
The priest moved with surprising speed, laying Elvric on a wooden bench and murmuring soft, rhythmic incantations to knit the torn flesh back together. Elvric groaned, his eyes fluttering open for a brief, panicked moment—full of terror—before the exhaustion of the spell took him again.
After Bob had stabilized the mage, he noticed that Sheng's usual mask of indifference had completely slipped. The assassin was staring at the horizon, his eyes dark and haunted, his posture rigid as if he were expecting an attack from his own shadow.
"What is it, Sheng?" Priest Bob asked softly, stepping away from the wounded mage. "You look as though you've already seen the ghosts of this war."
Sheng didn't look at him; his gaze remained fixed on the rising sun, which seemed to offer him no warmth today. "Even if a new day dawns," the assassin replied, "it cannot erase the memories written in the dark. Some shadows don't disappear when the light hits them. They just get longer."
Priest Bob turned fully toward his friend, placing a heavy, comforting hand on his shoulder. "Then tell me. If we are to bleed together when the sun hits its peak, let me know the weight you carry now. What happened out there that has you looking at the sun as if it were an enemy?"
Sheng took a long, shaky breath. The golden morning light failed to reach the cold, hollow depths of his eyes. He leaned back against the stone, his hands trembling ever so slightly, and began to recount a story that had been buried in blood and silence for far too long.