The Blackfang Tide


    Smoke stained the horizon.


    From the battlements of Valois Keep, Aldric watched the distant glow of burning villages—pinpricks of despair in the twilight. The Blackfang Horde moved like locusts, leaving only ash and bones in their wake. Their war drums echoed through the valley, a primal heartbeat that rattled the stones beneath his hands.


    “Scouts say they’ll reach us by dawn,” Thaddeus said, his usual smirk absent. “Ten thousand. Maybe more. Those wyvern-riders of theirs? They’re not just for show.”


    Aldric’s fingers tightened on the cold stone. Ten thousand. Valenor’s entire standing army numbered half that. His mind raced—Roman phalanxes, Napoleonic artillery squares—but this wasn’t a history textbook. This was flesh and fire and teeth.


    Isolde materialized beside him, her apron singed and reeking of sulfur. “The modified cannon’s ready. But it’ll need this.” She tossed him a vial of liquid Aether, its glow sickly green. “Refined Blight. One shot, maybe two before it destabilizes.”


    Aldric pocketed the vial, its weight like a lodestone. “And if it explodes?”


    “Pray you’re standing upwind.”


    <hr>


    The Cardinal’s Gambit


    Lumière Cathedral hummed with forbidden power.


    Cardinal Ignatius knelt in the sanctum, his hands stained black as he etched runes onto a towering brass cauldron. Inside, Blight-tainted Aether churned like a storm. The air tasted of rust and rot.


    “You risk damnation, Your Eminence,” whispered a trembling acolyte.


    “Damnation is a tool,” Ignatius hissed. “The Blight purges the unworthy. Today, it purges Valenor’s enemies.”Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    A knight burst in, armor clanking. “The Horde breaches the southern pass!”


    Ignatius smiled. “Then let the Light’s judgment fall.”


    <hr>


    The Battle of Ironridge


    Aldric’s cannon perched on the ridge like a gargoyle, its barrel aimed at the narrow pass below. Peasant militias huddled behind makeshift barricades, their scythes and pitchforks trembling. Farmers, not soldiers.


    “Steady!” Aldric shouted, throat raw. “Wait for the signal!”


    The earth shook as the Horde emerged—a sea of fur and steel, their wyverns screeching overhead. At their forefront rode Khan Varek, his armor fused with wyvern scales, a serrated blade gleaming in his fist.


    “Now!”


    Isolde slammed her palm onto the cannon’s ignition rune.


    The blast tore through the pass, green fire swallowing the Horde’s vanguard. Wyverns fell like meteors, their wings aflame. For a heartbeat, the militias cheered—until the smoke cleared.


    The surviving Horde warriors twisted.


    Blighted flesh bubbled over their armor, eyes melting into glowing pits. They moved faster, hungrier, their weapons fused to mutated limbs.


    “Fall back!” Thaddeus roared, dragging Aldric from the cannon as a Blightborn wyvern spewed acid. The barricades dissolved, men screaming as their flesh sloughed off bone.


    Aldric’s vision blurred—from smoke or guilt, he couldn’t tell. This is my fault. I brought the Blight here.


    <hr>


    The Price


    Duke Reynaud’s sword pressed against Aldric’s throat.


    “You invited this abomination!” the duke spat, gesturing to the hellscape beyond the keep. Blightborn Horde warriors clashed with Penitent Knights, their battle warping the land itself.


    Guillaume laughed, bloody and wild-eyed. “Father’s right. Time to pay your debts, brother.”


    A roar split the sky. Khan Varek’s wyvern descended, its talons shredding stone. Aldric lunged for the cannon, vial in hand—


    —and froze.


    The cataract-eyed girl stood in the wyvern’s shadow, clutching her mother’s lifeless hand.


    The dam must never break.


    Aldric loaded the vial.


    <hr>


    The Breaking


    The cannon fired.


    Green light engulfed the wyvern, the Khan, the sky itself. When it faded, only ash remained.


    But the victory crumbled as fast as the Blight spread.


    The land beneath Valois Keep cracked, fissures snaking toward the village. Serfs fled as the earth swallowed homes, the Blight’s corruption seeping into the aquifers.


    Ignatius appeared atop the rubble, arms wide. “Behold the Light’s mercy! Only through purging can we—”


    A crossbow bolt silenced him.


    Isolde lowered the weapon, her face grim. “Next time, aim for the head.”