A crisp sliver of morning light had appeared at the crest of the horizon. To the men gathered in the vale beyond Heldrtown, it looked like honey poured over fire. The beleaguered warriors stood, tired and bloody, and it was the sweetest sight imaginable.

 

Prince Luxor Zephyr crashed to the ground, deeply exhausted, and watched the last shadow of the escaping Giant disappearing into the mountains. He knew they couldn’t beat the creature--that was impossible, but they’d beaten him back enough to force it to flee, and that would have to do. His thought of his old mentor, and remembered his words. He’d always said that even the gods of war knew that some battles were worth fighting, while others were worth avoiding, and rarely did they choose a winner. This was the best end to such poorly matched odds.

 

Luxor looked around at the men before him from atop the hill he’d planted himself on. They’d joined not long after he had, and some had fought to their very last breath. A shame. But they would be honored upon their return, their families would receive their stipend, and for a short time, all would be well and safe.

 

He saw a shape slip through the assembled tatters of warriors, and raised his hand to signify his presence.

 

Lieutenant Commander Tiberim Zott approached his superior, his ever-present frown plastered to his stony face. Sweat drove in rivulets down his bald pate, and he wiped it with a rough hand before addressing the prince.

 

“Commander,” he said, his voice as deep as thunder and rough as charred wood, “I have the casualty count.”

 

“Isn’t this just a wonderful morning?” The prince mused, leaning back and closing his eyes. The chill of the morning felt wonderful on his hot and battered flesh. He could feel a light breeze playing with his long hair, and he stayed in the moment for a bit longer before opening his eyes to peek at Zott.

 

The man hadn’t moved, nor had his dour expression changed. He simply stood, a single piece of parchment clutched in his hands, the same breeze that Luxor had felt causing his unkempt beard to sway. Luxor did not enjoy this aspect of leadership.

 

“Sir,” Zott prompted, and lifted the paper, “the casualties.”

 

“Do you ever stop to enjoy the afterglow of battle, Lieutenant?” Luxor asked, pushing a strand of hair out of his eyes.

 

“No,” Zott responded, his serious black eyes never leaving the prince for an instant, “death and dying is nasty work, and there’s always another fight around the hill. Better to be ready, and prepare, than to sit around waiting for it to find you.”

 

“You’re a delight,” Luxor said, rolling his eyes and pulling himself forward to stand.

 

Zott lifted the paper, squinting at it.

 

“Very well,” Luxor said, dusting himself off, “what’s the count?”

 

“Fifteen dead, thirty wounded,” Zott said, and lowered the sheet, “five missing.”

 

“Any of ours?” Luxor asked distractedly. He procured an emory from within the pocket of his cloak and began scraping it against his fingernails.

 

“Two Equites of Nightsign Aries,” Zott said emotionlessly, “Finneas Marl and Rin Goetz. Dead.”

 

“That is unfortunate,” Luxor said, and switched to filing his other hand, “the rest, I assume, were conscripts?”

 

“Correct, Commander,” Zott said, “soldiery or guardsmen. A few fighting men from the Village of Lorra, and one of the black-clad ones.”

 

Luxor smirked.

 

“I suppose we should consider that lucky,” he said, and nodded at the crowd of warriors, most busying themselves with the wounded or their own health.

 

“Goetz and Marl shall be mourned,” he continued, “committed to the earth with honors. Where is Wallace?” The prince hadn’t seen his squire in some time, not since just before the fight with the Giant.

 

“Missing, Commander,” Zott said, quartering the parchment into neat folds, and slipping it into the opening in his satchel.

 

“I see,” Luxor said, sighing, “well, if he isn’t among the dead or wounded I suppose he ran off. A beast like that is not like to create courage in the hearts of a boy like Wallace.”

 

Zott harrumphed, nodding curtly, but said nothing else.

 

“Is there anyone fit to hold counsel with me? We need to assemble some men to go after those shadowy bastards with the red eyes. I don’t much like that they were able to slip away so easily.”

 

It was infuriating, actually, to the prince. He had seen them striking from the outskirts of the battlefield, taking down some of the fighters, but he had been too busy with the Giant. They’d escaped before he’d had a chance to deal with them properly. Luxor curled his lip. He despised cowardly enemies.

 

“Commander!” a voice called from downhill. Luxor glanced over and watched as the slim shape of a woman dashed up to meet them. She slid to a stop as she crested the hilltop, and exhaled a heavy breath. Her face was red, and her deep violet bangs were plastered to her forehead with sweat, and what appeared to be the makings of a gash. Her crimson tabard was smeared with dirt and blood, covering up the symbol of the Aries Nightsign.

 

“Yes, Lydia?” Luxor asked, “what is so desperately important that you raced up here to tell me? You know we beat the Giant.”

 

Lydia seemed confused. Flustered, even. She looked at the prince, then at Zott, and then to the mountains were Luxor had indicated.

 

“Oh, yes, er, of course!” she exclaimed, “I wanted to make sure you were okay. That was a nasty fight.”

 

“I’m quite alright, Lydia,” the prince said, “but you look banged up. You should see to that. You don’t need anything else contributing to your passable features.”

 

The young woman looked crestfallen, but nodded, her eyes shimmering with zeal.

 

“Right,” she said, “I’ll get fixed up right away. I heard something about counsel?”

 

“You misheard,” Luxor admonished, waving her away, “I need men who can fight, not children who are only good for eavesdropping.”

 

Lydia frowned and nodded.

 

“Yes, Lord,” she said, “I’ll see to it that your message passes along.” With that, she was off, racing back down the hill in what could only be described as panic.

 

“I’m going to go relieve myself, Lieutenant,” the prince said, walking down the other side of the hill, away from the others, “see that there’s a stout group awaiting my orders when I return.”

 

Zott harrumphed, and turned back to the gathering, slowly ambling down the hill.

 

--

 

Luxor sighed, and slipped his breeches back up, fastening them with his belt. Fortunately, there’d been woods nearby, and he’d discovered a suitable log to rest against. He abhorred having to do his natural duty in nature. It was the worst part about campaigning. During his tenure as a lowly cadet when he first placed in Aries, he’d earned the nickname ‘the Pampered”, for his necessity in procuring a comfortable spot to make, no matter where they were stationed.

 

Luckily, that had been extremely short lived. With his affinity for his Adventure Class, he’d quickly rose through the ranks, and then, he hardly ever had to be put through discomfort. He was glad, at least, that he was royalty. Those ignorant jokemeisters had been dealt with upon his prompting, sent to who-knows-where, and he’d heard nary a whisper of the moniker ever again. Not unless they wanted an absolute thrashing by a prince with a rare class of his level.

 

Luxor glanced beyond the trees. He could just make out the slope of the hill through the foliage, and he sighed.

 

“Zott better have gathered at least one person with half a brain,” he said to himself, “I’ll wring the neck of the next peasant who asks me what our next move is.” Of course, Zott knew his mind almost as well as the prince himself. He was a loyal subordinate, and a powerful companion who cared about few things other than his duty, save perhaps winning fights.

 

“And let’s not forget that stupid brother of his,” Luxor mused.

 

“That’s not very nice, Your Highness,” a voice hissed behind him.

 

Startled, the prince wheeled around, bringing his hands up, magical energy crackling along the length of his arms.

 

CRASH!

 

He was struck hard in the face by something heavy, and heard his nose break. Blood gushed out from his face, as the prince stumbled backward, blinded by pain. He tripped over something, and landed hard on his back, the air knocked out him and his spell dispersing.

 

Luxor wheezed, struggling to get a breath into his lungs from his mouth, but felt something wet being stuffed into his open maw. It felt like fabric and tasted like sulphur. He wanted to vomit, but was too busy trying to breathe to do so.

 

Several pairs of hands jerked him from the ground, and as he opened his eyes, he could see several darkly cowled individuals dragging him along, each holding his arms. Burning crimson orbs glared back at him maliciously, and Luxor tried to yell at them, to demand they unhand him, but no sound escaped his lips. He was slammed against a tree, his head crashing against the trunk and he was dazed.

 

There were a few bleak moments of fading consciousness before he came to fully, and could now see six identically dressed figures standing in front of him. He struggled to move, and found the he was bound by some means. In a rage, he was able to spit the gag out of his mouth.

 

“I’ll blast the flesh off of every single one of you miscreants!” he declared, straining against his binds. He couldn’t move his head or neck enough to see what exactly held him in place, but against the flesh of his wrists he thought he could feel metal.

 

“Shut the hell up,” demanded a hoarse voice, and Luxor watched as a seventh man emerged from the trees to his right. He wore a similar black ensemble, the lower half of his face obscured by a mask, and the same smoldering red eyes as his companions peered out form beneath his hood. He had a different countenance though. A dangerous aura emanated from the man, and as he drew close, the prince could see a crown of crisscrossed scars decorating his forehead.

 

Luxor took a ragged breath.

 

“You’re a fool if you think I’ll be ransomed,” he said, puffing out his chest as much as he could to show he was unafraid, “I’m the second son of the King of Cygnus, you brigands will--”

 

The man’s fist blasted the prince in his gut, and the rest of the air left his lungs, forcing him to be silent while he struggled to breathe again.

 

“I thought we’d have to settle for the Cambion,” the man said, chuckling, “but this is so much better than a dirty little half-devil.”

 

Cambion? Luxor thought, what do they want with Nox?

 

“You’re just as cowardly as I thought,” the prince spat, “you’d rather attack a boy than face a real man.”

 

CRUNCH!

 

The man thundered another punch right into his abdomen again, and Luxor spat again, but this time, blood came out. His ribs had broken.

 

“...and you’re just as stupid as I thought,” the man said, laughing, “if you’re hiding a real man under your skirt, you should say something. All we see is a pathetic little prince, bound and at our mercy.”

 

This elicited a croak of laughter from the audience of assailants. Their leader held up his hand, and they silenced immediately. Luxor could hardly keep his consciousness intact, and he wrestled with his own exhaustion and likely injury of mind to attempt to keep his eyes on the man before him. Who was he? What was his purpose here?

The man held the prince’s gaze for another moment in the quiet, before dropping his hand finally. He turned away, and began walking back into the trees.

 

“We got what we came for,” he said, vanishing into the flora, “kill him.”