Oblivious to the encroaching plight, Sir Bradfrey fought to rally his soldiers, their assembly stalled by the relentless barrage of explosions. His commands were swallowed by the deafening cacophony, his voice lost in the endless reverberations of impact, shaking the very air around them.


    The dormant northern outpost was a mere afterthought as his knuckles pressed against the cold stonework, his mind torn between rage and strategy. The battlefield pulsed with blinding flashes, the mist swirling in electric bursts—revealing nothing but the towering giants in the distance, their smoky-lantern eyes cutting through the storm.


    “Word from the southern flank, my lord,” said a young messenger, his voice muffled by the relentless thunder.


    “Amos?” Bradfrey asked .


    “He says it’s nice weather for a stroll by the riverside. Should you wish to join?” the boy replied, struggling to mask his unease.


    Bradfrey scoffed. “What? Is he insane?” He could picture Amos grinding his teeth, cursing every second of enforced inaction.


    “Inaction,” Bradfrey muttered, the word sour in his mouth. His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he studied the flickering bursts of light, searching for any sign of a pagan advance.


    The orange mist had begun to drift higher, creeping toward the upper garrison. Its effects varied—mild irritation in some, violent coughing in others—but nothing compared to the suffering below.


    The mercenaries choked and staggered, their leaders shouting orders that dissolved into ragged gasps. Panic spread through their ranks, and they broke, scrambling for the gatehouse, their desperate pleas for refuge echoing through the walls. Above, their terror seeped into Bradfrey’s less experienced peasant soldiers, unsettling the fragile defenders.


    The messenger shifted anxiously. “What do we do, my lord?”


    Bradfrey hesitated, his mind churning. Then his gaze flicked northward.


    No torches. No movement. Nothing—except the spine-tingling realization that they had been deceived.


    “They’re not moving,” Bradfrey muttered. “Nothing’s moving.”


    His swollen eyes swept over the thrashing woodlands, then darted to the lightly reinforced rear camps.


    “It’s a trap. This is all a show. They’re trying to surround us. The rear is vulnerable. The camps—they’re… Verivix.” His voice sharpened, clarity cutting through the fog of battle. “He’s going to flank us.”


    Without hesitation, Bradfrey seized the messenger by the shoulders, his grip firm, his words precise.


    “Get to Amos. Tell him to ride free or die waiting.”


    A fresh wave of agonized screams tore through the air, cutting him short.


    Bradfrey turned sharply to the gatehouse. “Open the gates. Get them inside!”


    Then, to the messenger once more. "On your way, make ready the trebuchets. Aim them high. High into the sky. Let us rain rock and ore as far as the winds will carry them. And never, never stop. Upon my dead body, they do not stop."


    With a firm shove, he sent the boy sprinting toward the over-ramp and descended the opposing stairway to the queen’s mounted regiments.


    The knights were waiting, caution written on their faces as they watched the staggering remnants of the mercenaries stumble through the gatehouse. The most battle-hardened among them were on their knees, smearing mud over their stinging eyes, desperate for relief from the acidic mist.


    “What of us, my lord?” the lead knight asked, his voice faltering as a pallor washed over his face.


    “Ready your horses. We ride,” Bradfrey ordered, his squire fastening the last pieces of his armor while another prepared his mount.


    “Through that?” the knight pressed, echoing the unspoken dread of the entire regiment. They had yet to feel the mist’s bite, but their stiff postures and downcast gazes betrayed their hesitation.


    Bradfrey’s answer was swift and unforgiving. He struck the knight with a sharp backhand, sending him tumbling from his horse.


    “For those of you not here willingly,” Bradfrey said as he rode past the assembled knights, yanking at their armor, testing their mounts. “Relinquish your horses. Go back to your lands. You are not needed.”


    He let the words settle as his eyes passed over them, casting shame upon their hesitation.


    “But for those foolhardy enough to believe in a cause greater than mortal flesh—relinquish your lands. Forget your earthly possessions. History cares little for such trivialities. For when the morning breaks and the scavengers circle, those still breathing shall stand tallest among legends. They will be remembered. Not as the pious and righteous hidden behind guarded walls, but as the tried and true—the ones who entered hell on their terms and took the battle to the devil himself.”


    Without another word, he spurred his horse into a gallop, circling the walls and stockpiles, where frightened peasants clanged metal against metal in a rhythmic show of solidarity.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    “All hail Sir Bradfrey! All hail Sir Bradfrey!”


    The chant swelled, voices rising from artisans and subsistence farmers alike—men unworthy of mounts or coats of arms, making their allegiances known to all who doubted the true commander of the North.


    Their cries drove Bradfrey faster. He galloped past the royal mounts one final time, daring them to look away, daring them to deny his resolve.


    “All those who doubt me, bear witness,”


    With that, he urged his horse forward, vanishing into the mist-covered northern gatehouse.


    The fear of shame pushed the knights into motion. Hooves stumbled, curses and prayers mixed in frantic whispers, but one by one, they followed their fearless leader.


    As they entered the acidic mist, their vision blurred, their sinuses burned, and their horses recoiled beneath the searing air. Yet through it all, Bradfrey’s voice cut through the choking haze—distorted but unshaken.


    “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.”


    Lightning split the sky, shattering the mist into swirling pockets of orange.


    “Hail Mary, full of grace,” Bradfrey repeated, his voice raw, his mind stripped of everything but the burning need to push forward.


    Into no man’s land they rode. Whether horse or rider, they endured—nothing but blind fate carrying them through the suffocating hellscape. They pressed forward, drawn toward the deafening crash of God’s hammer, welcoming their pagan adversaries to Keesh with twenty-five pounds of cold stone repetition.


    The trebuchet munitions pounded the hillside, scattering the pagan formations and forcing them into a partial uphill retreat. The relentless barrage drowning out the tremor of approaching hooves. Leaving them unable to discern the projectiles from the charging cavalry.


    Then, through the swirling orange plumes, the black-and-white knight burst forth, his charge masked until the final, terrifying moment. The purple-coated chevrons of the queen’s mounts followed close behind. Their surprise assault tore through the chaos, carving a path from the front lines to the heart of the Steppe warriors.


    Bradfrey’s lance struck true, slamming into a giant’s chest plate with such force that it threw him from his horse, the shaft shattering as the massive figure staggered. Around him, his knights pressed forward, some suffering the same fate—horses brought down, lances snapping against the towering foes—but still, they surged on, tearing deep into the enemy’s heart.


    Bradfrey stirred, dazed from the impact, his hand sweeping across the dirt. His helmet was gone. His horse—lost or dead. Beneath him, the earth trembled.


    Before him the air whistled with impending doom of a looming giant and his swirling three-headed mace. Its chain snapping taut as it prepared to crush him. Bradfrey turned, raising his blade—too late—


    The dwindling knights breached the circle of tattooed wizards. Their magical tear, having reached its zenith, could no longer be contained. The collision prematurely detonating the sphere of searing phosphorus, igniting in a blinding inferno.


    The explosion ripped through everything, incinerating wizards and warriors alike. Even the looming giant was not spared—his colossal frame took the brunt of the blast, his body shielding Bradfrey from the super-heated devastation.


    A distant call pierced the battlelines, commanding a desperate, full-frontal assault on Keesh. Tribal warriors surged forward, rushing headlong into the acidic mist—only to stumble, choke, and perish by their own poison.


    On the flanks, Amos and his mounted crossbowmen struck like phantoms, isolating pockets of resistance, creating openings to free the queen’s knights. A chance to regroup and press on.


    While at the gatehouse, the defenders faltered. The demonic horde overwhelmed their defenses, capturing the walls, flooding the streets and courtyards. In blind panic, the archers fired indiscriminately, their arrows striking friend and foe alike. The mercenary forces at the chokepoints fought to the last man, clinging to the hope that Bradfrey’s heroics might turn the tide.


    Across the battlefield, the tide surged and receded, driven by the chaotic machinations of death and destruction.


    A fresh wave of unrestrained giants barreled forward, heedless of their own, trampling warriors in their reckless pursuit of the surviving knights. Among them, one stood apart—an ice-forged war hammer raised high.


    Frightened knights pressed against the writhing mass of Steppe warriors, desperate to evade the impending blow. But where the hammer’s crushing descent should have flattened man and metal alike, the malevolent hand of Lascivious intervened.


    A swirling orb of kinetic energy erupted on impact, sparing the faithful in service of the wicked.


    With unnatural torque, the giant’s torso twisted violently, wrenching sideways as bones and ice shattered in a thunderous crack. His colossal form whipped through the air, a discarded wreck hurled into the pagan lines with a sickening crunch.


    From the chaos, a lone figure emerged. A blind monk, his eyes burning with a piercing, laser-red glow. Ink-black veins etched across his skin like cursed scripture as he strode forward, undaunted by the carnage.


    His presence radiated raw dominion, unrestrained and absolute. He reached into the battlefield’s fury, molding it into spheres of pure kinetic force. One by one, the orbs erupted, cleaving through Steppe warriors in perfect, merciless rows.


    Then came the pulse.


    It swept across the field, rippling through steel, bone, and blood. Bradfrey felt it. For a moment, his mind was not his own. His limbs moved with unnatural precision, his thoughts surrendering to something vast and incomprehensible. The chain-linked cross around his neck burned, the metal liquefying as the pervasive magic ripped through him.


    His consciousness fractured, floating outside himself, watching helplessly as his own body became a force of nature. He parried. Thrust. Moved. Slashing through the encirclement, he carved a direct path to Verivix, his blade an unrelenting force.


    Then—contact. Steel met flesh, severing the pagans'' link to the underworld.


    For an instant, it felt real. A perverse satisfaction stirred within Bradfrey, a hunger uncoiling, eager for more. Into the fray, he strode. Each kill flashing faster than the one before it. With each blink, another face twisted in agony, crying for their mothers—until the flickering torrent of lives unraveled time itself. The future folded into the past. And everything in between vanished into nothing.


    Upon the sight of parting clouds, fractured light spilled over the day’s carnage, and Bradfrey’s senses returned. The battlefield had changed—splintered lances jutted from the earth like gravestones, banners half-buried in the mud, corpses cradling shattered swords in stiff fingers. Hell had shown it’s colors, while the heavens mourned mankind''s insatiable appetite for savagery.


    His chest heaved. His lungs burned. His body trembled. Yet all he felt was the dagger in his grasp—and the warm ribbons of red threading over the hilt.


    “Cestmir,” he whispered, struggling to will his hand to move—to pull away from the dagger and grant himself the mercy of consoling his dying friend.


    Unmoved Cestmir laid between his limp arms, too still, too light, too pale to resist. The quartermaster''s eyes fluttered weakly. His breath came shallow, fragile.


    With one final exhale, he whispered, “Those… aren’t your colors.”


    And then, nothing.


    The life slipped from his body, and Bradfrey collapsed further, his strength bleeding away. His face was a hollow mask, unable to convey the depth of his sorrow. He stared, mute and motionless. No breath left to scream. No tears left to cry.


    What had he done?


    Who had he become?