Mallowston.

TONIGHT, the Keep deepened into a peculiar kind of blackness; the kind that told tales of gallant knights, beastly men and nubile princesses around bonfires. The black from which the lonely sought the forbidden passions of the flesh; moaning whispers lost to the citadel's walls. From the east, a tempestuous gust smothered a few torches. There, in the bailey, benign fairies stalked; a soft shimmering on the darkened grounds tell-tale signs of their passage. The clear sky and the endless shadows, the roguish laughter of drunken men in cahoots; how Gilbert yearned to linger a while longer, but woe to him, bearer of the burdens of a dutiful scion.

I grip the bottle o' so tight; another night gone by the drop. I pray to the forefathers of the night, help thy son stop. Gilbert whispered under his breath, bemoaning the onus of his post. An ever-conscientious man, the young earl meticulously perused the slender parchment scroll clutched in his hand; the dim candlelight illuminating his neatly trimmed stubble as it twitched subtly; a pleasant hum from his lips even as he diligently revised the content of the letter.

[Greetings Father,] the slip read, [how goes the preparations for your return? Mother, Malina and little Titi send their greetings. As for Faywyn, the annexation proceeds apace. Regrettably, the von Greifenburgs show reluctance to vacate their hold. Nevertheless, I assure you, we shall seize the lands within the year. Though it may cost us valiant men, a feast hath been arranged in their honour, exalting their reckoned sacrifices and our imminent triumph, as thou hast commanded.

At the break of dawn, we shall set forth. May the ancestors guide us well.]

He perused the message again, and once more for good measure: Content, Gilbert rolled the parchment slip into a tiny scroll before sealing it with a pint-sized wax stamp. The thought of writing more crossed his mind as he stood up from the table, yet the modest scroll could contain but so much. Seizing a plump pigeon from a nearby cage, he affixed the letter to a pouch upon its back before releasing the bird into the night. Mayhap 'twas the anticipation of his inaugural conflict or the intoxicating buzz born of indulgence in one libation too many. Perchance 'twas simply the apprehension that the missive might never reach his father; the native goshawk population had long proven a relentless nuisance, after all. Should the worst come to pass, he resolved to dispatch another copy or two come morn before their departure.

Yet Gilbert felt drained, a tad inebriated. With a stretch and a weary yawn, he rose from his seat, his movements slightly unsteady as he ambled toward his bed. Stumbling slightly, he languidly settled into its embrace, turning to gaze upon the vaulted ceiling as another yawn escaped his lips. Eyelids heavy, he listened to the jovial clamour of his comrades below, their revelry failing to assuage the weariness besieging his mind; slowly, he surrendered to a fitful slumber—until a piercing sound rent the fort, shrill screams echoing through the keep.

Gilbert jolted upright, his ears assailed by a cacophony of discordant noises—the clanging of steel upon steel and stone, the splintering of timber, the anguished cries of butchered men. A symphony of bloodlust and despair. The earl rushed to his window, his countenance draining of colour at the scene unfolding before him.

The stables lay deserted, their equine denizens fleeing through the open gates. The guesthouse north of the Citadel—engulfed in flames, its fiery glow illuminating the keep in a ghastly hue. A skirmish erupted at the armoury, cloaked figures rampaging, hurling torches upon all that would burn. Archers and crossbowmen stationed upon the portcullis and bastioned walls unleashed volleys of projectiles, decimating those who sought escape. Chaos reigned supreme, merciless flames consuming all in their path, churning a pall of thick smoke into the starlit sky.

"No," Gilbert muttered in disbelief, his gaze catching sight of a knight bearing the von Greifenburg sigil amidst the crimson conflagration of his ancestral home. His blood ran cold, his heart pounding within his breast; hyperventilating, he tore his gaze from the inferno, stumbling backwards as he drew in a sharp breath. Ashen-faced, he staggered toward his table, clutching its edge with trembling fists. There, amidst the disarray, he fumbled for another parchment, hastily penning a missive, his hands trembling with fear.

[Father,] It pled, [Mallowston is under siege. By the time this missive reaches you, we may be captives or worse. If not, we shall flee to Towleigh and await word of your return]

The note was hastily scrawled, lacking Gilbert's usual flourish and flamboyant script. In haste, he heated a small pan of sealing wax, dipping a coin-sized stamp into the molten liquid. Yet in his urgency—or perhaps inebriation—the stamp slipped from his grasp, rolling beneath the furniture. Panic seized him as he fell to his knees in pursuit, scattering the contents of the table in his frantic search. Then, freezing, he heard a noise outside his chamber—a door torn from its hinges.

No. No. Please no.

Summoning his resolve, Gilbert retrieved the wayward stamp, only to find the wax on it had been rubbed off. Glancing around, he saw the heated pan on the floor, its contents spilt across the wooden floorboards.

"Blast it all!" he cursed, his gaze darting about frantically. Then, he froze as he stared at the mess on the floor. His vision swam, his mind collapsing under the sheer weight of his fear and confusion: The door in the next room wailed as it was forcibly ripped open. The vexed growls of men echoed in the hallway.

"He is not here!" one growled, his tone thickly laden with bloodlust and frustration.

Gilbert's fears ballooned, his head jerking to look behind him in the direction of his door which was now being kicked open at the hinges. Three loud bangs and a strained whine later the oakwood barrier was torn down as several armed men barged into the room.

A hush descended as Gilbert beheld the shrouded figures before him. The throng parted, and a figure, seemingly the commander, strode forth, his footfalls resounding with a grim resolve. Clad in a cuirass and gambeson beneath a cloak stained with blood, he brandished a crimson-soaked blade in one hand and a torch ablaze in the other. His gaze swept across the chamber, taking stock of the scene—the seal clutched by Gilbert, the missive upon the table, and the spilt wax upon the floor—before settling upon Gilbert, who knelt in trepidation beneath his table. Soft coos from the caged pigeons echoed in the background.

Desperation gripped Gilbert's heart as he regarded the cloaked figure before him. To him, it seemed as though the very devil had manifested—the sinister spectre of his childhood tales, embodied in flesh and blood.

Puhbeer!

"It is over, Gilbert," the leader intoned, drawing back his shawl to reveal his countenance.

"You've lost."

Earlier.

Same starry sky; same lonely moon. Lancelot mused, staring at the crescent above as he trudged along a sequestered dirt path. As he approached his destination—an unassuming glade nestled within the woods north of Mallowston Fort—he could not stop his mind from wandering; conjuring vivid images of the gruesome death that was destined for him tonight. Still, despite the unease that flourished in the depths of his mind, he trudged bravely.

As he drew nearer, shadows shifting within the thickets ahead heralded the presence of others. Silhouettes stood sentinel around a modest campfire, a cache of arrows, bolts, and unlit torches nearby. Clad in armour beneath cloaks that shrouded their figures, each man bore the weight of anticipation etched upon his countenance. Tension hung heavy in the air, palpable as Lancelot approached, eliciting wary glances and the subtle stirrings of weapons.

Cautious. Dangerous. "Good. They understood the severity of tonight's task."

"Stand down," Lancelot commanded, palms raised in a gesture of peace as he entered the clearing.

"Well, I'll be damned," remarked a grizzled knight, offering a salute tinged with jest. "I half expected the Lady herself to have flayed you alive by now, lad, for agreeing to such a foolhardy scheme."

"Good to see you too, Ser Carter," Lancelot retorted, his expression unreadable as he returned the salute. Though inwardly, he acknowledged the truth in the older man's words; his lady's wrath was a formidable force, even if veiled beneath her grace.

"Is all accounted for?" Lancelot inquired, addressing Carter directly.

"Mostly," came the reply. "Two fellows opted to remain behind, indulging in their vices. Doubt we'd see hide nor hair of 'em near Faywyn, even if we waited a fortnight."

"Even now, we have deserters?" Lancelot sighed, then nodded, understanding the nature of such matters. "And the forester at the Fort's pass?"

"He and his kin have been detained," Carter confirmed.

"Very well," Lancelot said, positioning himself at the forefront of the assembly. "I am assuming everyone present is clear on the purpose of our endeavour?"

Receiving silent affirmation, Lancelot unrolled a scroll upon the earth, its contours illuminated by the flickering flames nearby.

"This…" he began, tracing the outlines upon the parchment, as the knights gathered—murmuring—around his crouched form, "...is Mallowston Fort."

Twelve minutes later.

"May the guiding light of our Forefathers illuminate our path," Ser Lancelot whispered, his gaze fixed upon Mallowston Fort crowning the hill ahead. Above, the argent crescent adorned the heavens, casting a pallid glow upon the looming citadel—a silhouette of menace against the silver night. Glancing back at the four figures skulking in his wake, Lancelot then turned his attention back to the fortress and—with a determined breath—pressed forward.

The portcullis of the Fort, standing tall at five meters, lay open, flanked by four guards: two stationed outside, their forms slumped lethargically against the stone wall, and two perched above, torches illuminating their watch. Lancelot signalled to his comrades behind him, and with the faint groan of bowstrings, followed by two dull reports, the targets both slumped out of sight; dead, an arrow to each man.

Without pause, Lancelot surged forward, pouncing upon one guard with a swift and silent assault. His hand clamped over the man's mouth, muffling any outcry as his dagger found its mark, silencing the unfortunate sentry forever. With practised efficiency, the body was concealed from view, and Lancelot strained his ears for any alarm.

None came.

Sighing with relief, he surveyed the bailey, noting the drunken revelry of a distant group gathered around a bonfire. His gaze then turned to the section of the wall facing the forest, where two more guards stood watch about a hundred meters away. He glanced back at his companions, addressing the archers among them.

"Can you make the shot?" he queried.

"Hopefully," one replied, the other remaining silent. "Athri could, but he's likely halfway to Towleigh by now."

"Forget Athri," Lancelot commanded, gesturing towards the guards. "Our success hinges on your aim. No pressure. Just do not disappoint."

With practised precision, the archers let fly their arrows, felling the guards with deadly accuracy. Lancelot glanced at the Citadel ahead, anxiously rubbing his gloved palm as one of his companions left to pry the torches off the wall before exiting the keep. Lancelot followed him out to see him waving one of the lit torches above his head, signalling their comrades in the woods to advance.

A tense minute later, cloaked figures emerged from the shadowy thicket, like infernal beings rising from hell, stalking towards the Fort. Lancelot released the breath he did not realise he had been holding. His palms felt cold under his gloves, and the fabric on his back soaked through with sweat: A cool breeze blew over sending a small shiver down his spine. Turning back to face the Citadel he let his expression harden again as he began to tread forward across the open bailey, his steps gaining a bit of speed with each stride. Behind him, men poured into the Keep before moving towards various structures—designated targets—with longswords, messers and unlit torches in hand. Archers and arbalists began manoeuvring to scale the earthen fortification to provide covering fire as they advanced.

Lancelot crossed the bailey undetected, avoiding the group he spotted earlier around the bonfire as he snuck towards the Citadel's gate. Reaching there, a small contingent gathered behind him as he prepared to breach the barrier. With deft skill, one of the knights pried open the door with his dagger. As he entered, his blade found its mark, dispatching a drunken sentry who had been sleeping behind the door.

Ascending a flight of stairs, they encountered another door, which yielded easily to their advance. Beyond this door, however, was a woman, a maid perhaps, with her back pressed against the wall as she hung by the knees in the arms of a man whose breeches were strung curiously across the hallway—a couple lost in a moment of passion, oblivious to the intruders in their midst. Lancelot wasted no time, swiftly impaling the man on his blade. The maid screamed but the shrill noise immediately stopped as she too was immediately cut down.

"Bloody wench," The viscount hissed before turning around to face the men behind him, "Well shit, to think we would be had by a maid. What are you lot dallying about for, kill anyone that resists and bring me that bastard scion of the Heras; cripple him if you have to, just make sure he is captured alive."

With a surge of movement, the knights charged forth, the hallways echoing with the clash of steel and cries of struggle. As the slaughter unfolded, Lancelot led his men deeper into the heart of the fortress, intent on completing their mission.

Ascending another set of stairs, they came upon five women and a female child huddled together in a corner of the room. Lancelot didn't know the first three, most probably lady's maids given the quality of their attires, but he did recognise the others as core members of the Hera household. The Count's wife, daughter and lastborn.

Ordering a knight to stand guard, Lancelot pressed on, kicking open another door to reveal a familiar figure cowering beneath a table—Gilbert, the scion of the Heras.

Surveying the scene—a letter, spilt wax, and startled birds—Lancelot met the earl's gaze with steely resolve.

"It is over, Gilbert," he declared. "You have lost."

Morning, the next day.

Levi sat beside the windowsill, his gaze fixed upon the plume of smoke ascending from the stronghold upon the hill. Below, a crowd had gathered upon the thoroughfare, their murmurs and mutterings mingling in the air, ripe with uncertainty and unrest. Commoners and tradesfolk alike congregated, drawn by the spectacle unfolding before them, unaware, as the rabble are wont to be.

Behind him, the chamber door creaked open, admitting another presence into the room.

"Lancelot?" Levi inquired.

"Aye, My Lord, it is I," the viscount affirmed, sinking to one knee in deference. "Your bidding has been executed, My Liege. As commanded, we have seized Mallowston: its fortress, its passages, and its harbour—all under your dominion. None may depart this township sans your explicit leave. The recalcitrant Heras and their retinue have been detained; those who defied us met the edge of the blade. We commence scouring for spies, while our knights quell any murmurs of dissent amidst the populace and tradesmen."

"Very well," Levi responded impassively, his countenance betraying little emotion, save for a glimmer in his eyes that spoke volumes. After a moment of solemn silence, the earl spoke once more.

"Bid Ser Carter attend to the remainder. Our task here is complete."

"As you command, My Lord." Lancelot rose to take his leave; the door closed behind him with a muted thud.

…Yet, despite his words, Levi's gaze lingered, fixated upon the tableau of his inaugural conquest; to him, it was a masterfully crafted scene, replete with hues and grandeur; a symphony of the sanguine, resounding in its primal cadence. Truly!

…magnificent, the earl, lost in the morbid beauty of it all, whispered to himself.