The host marched on through the tunnels beneath the Sunkeep, their passage lit by the faint blue gleam shimmering from the stone itself.

  The quiet light steadied them as they ascended towards their destination.

  At last, Baronsworth halted.

  “We are here,” he said quietly.

  “We stand beneath the armory.”

  Overhead loomed a broad square of smooth stone, distinct from the rough ceiling around it.

  Alexander’s hand went to his weapon.

  “This is it. Steel yourselves—we know not what waits above. Be ready for anything.”

  Blades whispered from their sheaths as the men prepared.

  “Are we ready?” Baronsworth asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” Alexander answered.

  “Then the time has come.”

  Baronsworth drew Lightbringer, its pure radiance kindling in the dim.

  He took one steadying breath, then spoke the command:

  “Fásto.”

  With a deep grinding, the stone overhead began to slide aside.

  The sound echoed through the tunnel, loud enough to set every heart hammering.

  When the opening yawned wide, a glimpse of the Keep’s interior greeted them—and for a heartbeat, the Asturians’ faces shone with awe.

  Home, at last.

  Then the shouting came.

  “What in the name of—? The floor’s moving! Arm yourselves!”

  Boots scraped above.

  Steel rang.

  Baronsworth vaulted upward in a single bound, Lightbringer blazing in his grasp.

  “An intruder! Cut him down!” the black-armored commander roared.

  The Sons of Belial rushed forward—only to be met by a single figure emerging from the earth itself.

  The first man reached him, blade swinging high.

  Lightbringer met the strike in a clean arc—steel turned aside, white light flashing—and in the same motion Baronsworth’s riposte slid past the man’s guard and through his chest.

  The soldier collapsed without a sound.

  The others faltered, but only for a heartbeat.

  Baronsworth pressed in.

  His blade moved with swift economy, each stroke placed to end a life.

  The next two fell before they could raise their shields; a third tried to parry and had his weapon swept aside, his throat opened in the same breath.

  A fourth lunged for Baronsworth’s flank—he turned with fluid precision, caught the strike, and let the attacker’s own momentum carry him forward into the waiting edge of Lightbringer.

  Panic rippled through the rest.

  Fear shadowed their faces, but they came on anyway, pride and hatred driving them.

  Five struck at once, blades hammering from every side.

  Baronsworth did not yield an inch.

  He caught each blow, his sword singing as it met theirs, his body turning just enough, never wasted motion.

  He was like stone before the tide, patient, unbroken—until, with a sudden burst, he moved.

  His counters were a blur: a thrust to the heart, a cut across a belly, a downward strike that split helm and skull alike.

  In moments, all five lay dead.

  Behind him, one of the enemies tried a desperate cleaving blow.

  Baronsworth pivoted, Lightbringer rising in perfect time.

  Steel met steel—and the enemy’s blade shattered on impact.

  Baronsworth’s reply ended him in a single, merciless stroke.

  A headless corpse dropped at his feet.

  When the twelfth body fell, silence claimed the room.

  Alexander climbed up through the opening just in time to see the last of it—the bodies strewn like cast-off shadows, Baronsworth standing amidst them, breath steady, his blade streaked with crimson, its light burning through the dark like an unquenched star.

  Two foes remained.

  One seized a halberd from the rack and charged.

  Baronsworth let him come.

  At the last instant, his sword flashed twice: first shearing the weapon’s head, then the man’s.

  Only the commander was left.

  He looked around, saw no allies standing, and broke—bolting for the doors.

  Baronsworth’s arm snapped forward.

  Lightbringer flew from his hand, a streak of white.

  It struck between the commander’s shoulders, piercing through.

  The man crumpled mid-stride.

  With a quiet motion Baronsworth recalled the blade.

  It returned to him with a low, harmonic hum.

  Alexander stood frozen, awe plain on his face.

  The boy he had once known—the boy who had fled these halls in terror—was gone.

  In his place stood a lord, terrible and unyielding, who had taken his home’s first chamber in the space of heartbeats.

  “You have come a long way, Baronsworth,” Alexander said at last, voice low with wonder.

  “No longer are you a child striving to learn the ways of men. Though we never finished your training, you are now a warrior in full—a worthy son of your line.”

  Baronsworth flicked the blood away and sheathed Lightbringer with deliberate calm.

  “For twenty years I roamed the land, calling no place home, fighting daily for the right to live. Life herself became my teacher. She was not as patient a mentor as you, nor as kind as my father… but she was thorough.”

  Alexander inclined his head, sensing there were places in that statement best left untouched.

  He turned to the shadows, eyes sweeping the vast chamber for lurking foes.

  None emerged.

  For now, at least, they were safe.

  Behind him, the others climbed up one by one, their boots rasping against stone as they hauled themselves into the chamber.

  They formed in quiet rows beneath the pale light of the walls, like shadows gathering for war.

  The armory stretched wide around them, a cavern of steel and memory—racks upon racks of weapons, armor enough for an army.

  It had been built in the old days, when hope still lingered that their people might rise again to glorious heights.

  That hope had long since withered; only these grand halls remained, a silent testament to aspirations long past.

  Alexander approached a stand and lifted a polearm, its weight familiar in his hands.

  “Ah, the mighty halberd,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  “I remember when Lord Godfrey led us against the mountain Orcs. Thousands we felled—our wall of blades unbroken, steelbows singing death from behind. Your father always knew the ground, always struck at the right moment. Somehow, we always held the advantage—his insight turned every battle. In one generation, he ended a plague that had gnawed at these lands for many long years.”

  Baronsworth’s gaze softened briefly.

  “I only wish he had taken me with him. He taught me the theory of war well enough, but when I faced true battle as a mercenary… I found how little theory alone can do.”

  Across the room, Siegfried glanced up from where he inspected a rack of weapons with his men.

  His eyes lingered on Baronsworth, pride unspoken but clear.

  “You managed more than well enough. In the years you rode with us, we went from a band of fighters to legend. Your tactics won battles we had no right to win.”

  Baronsworth gave a small nod.

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  “I appreciate your words, Siegfried. But I could use some of my father’s genius now.”

  “Your father’s aim was always to shield you,” Alexander said gently.

  “He wanted you ready before you saw true war. Fate chose otherwise. Still”—he set the halberd back in its rack and turned to face Baronsworth squarely—”we are here now, together, and I will teach you all I can of how our people wage war. Between us, we will see this done.”

  Baronsworth gave a single nod, sharp and sure.

  Around him, the armory no longer felt hollow.

  Footsteps echoed off stone as warriors continued pouring in, voices low but steady, the air thickening with purpose.

  What had been silent and still now thrummed with life, with resolve, as the host prepared for the battle to come.

  Among them stood Gil’Galion.

  He lingered a moment apart, gaze roaming over the endless racks of steel and mail.

  At last, he stepped forward and brushed his fingertips along the hilt of a blade.

  “So many arms,” he murmured.

  “Enough to equip a host.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the gathered warriors.

  If there were as many enemies as there were blades here, they were badly outnumbered.

  Baronsworth caught the shift in mood at once.

  “If the weapons and armor are gathered here,” he said firmly, “then that is good news. It means they are not in the hands of the men they were meant for.”

  The tension eased.

  He was right: an army without arms was no army at all.

  Baronsworth turned to Alexander.

  “This gear—we can use it. What do you think?”

  Alexander stepped forward, examining a sword, testing its balance with a quick swing.

  He moved on to the halberds, then the suits of armor, running a hand along their polished steel.

  “It is fine work,” he said at last.

  “Asturian-forged—fit for any field.”

  “Good. Have the men take the halberds. Outfit them with the armor not yet dyed black, so we can know our own from theirs. Take only the best. Be swift—time is precious.”

  Alexander nodded and moved off to relay the orders.

  The men began selecting their arms and armor with practiced speed.

  These rangers, long stripped of heavy gear in favor of stealth and survival, now felt the old pride stirring in them again.

  Piece by piece, they shed the look of hunted survivors and began to take on the bearing of a true army—one that could stand and meet its foe head-on.

  Meanwhile, Karl wandered to a nearby table strewn with half-filled tankards, scraps of food, and a deck of playing cards.

  “So,” he said, lifting one of the cards between two fingers, “they were gambling and drinking. How rude—we weren’t even invited.”

  “That explains the soldiers we found here,” Fredrick observed.

  “They weren’t guarding this place—there’s no way in except the main door, and they would never have known of the trapdoor. No, they were hiding from their duties, stealing a moment for themselves. I doubt your uncle would approve.”

  Baronsworth’s mouth curved in a thin smile.

  “No, he would not. Garathor tolerates no such weakness. Discipline above all—that’s the word on him. If they were here in secret, then the element of surprise is still ours. And their absence won’t be noted quickly.”

  Soon, the transformation was complete.

  The men stood ready, armored and armed in the steel of their ancestors.

  No longer the ragged band that had crept through shadowed woods, they now bore the look of a force meant to take back what was theirs.

  To Baronsworth’s eyes, it was as if the past itself had stepped forward into the present—his father’s army reborn, a wall of steel and unbroken resolve.

  “All right, men,” Baronsworth said, his voice low but carrying.

  “We do not know what waits in these halls. Move carefully. Stay silent for as long as possible—surprise is still our greatest weapon, and we are likely outnumbered. Our first objective is the central hallway outside these doors. It leads both to the outer gate and to the upper levels. If we take it, we split their strength in two and hold a position of great advantage—just as my father did against the Orcs.”

  He glanced briefly at Alexander.

  The old soldier gave a single nod.

  “We’ll secure the floor above as well,” Baronsworth continued.

  “Archers there will command the hall—its arrow slits offer perfect vantage. Take those heights, and no enemy will pass through this keep without our leave. This is our home, not theirs. Remember that. And if all goes wrong—if they discover us before we’re ready—then we fight to the last. No quarter.”

  A deep, rolling thud of fists and shields answered him.

  Baronsworth turned, easing the armory doors open, and peered into the corridor beyond.

  A handful of guards lounged in the torchlight, some half-dozing.

  They were not ready.

  He beckoned the archers forward—Gil’Galion among them—and whispered quick orders.

  Then he counted down, fingers tightening on Lightbringer’s hilt.

  “Three… two… one… go!”

  The doors swung wide, and the Asturians poured out.

  Baronsworth was first.

  Lightbringer left his hand in a streak of pale radiance, striking a halberdier square in the chest.

  The man crumpled without a sound.

  Baronsworth recalled the blade to his grip and drove forward.

  Another guard spun towards him, eyes wide.

  He thrust his weapon in a desperate lunge, but Baronsworth slipped aside, seized the shaft, and drove Lightbringer through the man’s ribs in one fluid motion.

  Behind him, the first volley of steelbows sang down the corridor.

  The black-armored guards fell in heaps, weak points pierced with deadly precision.

  Gil’Galion’s bow worked faster still, arrows loosed in a blur, each one true.

  He sent missiles through the narrow arrow slits above, felling the sentries hidden behind them before they could cry alarm.

  A squad of enemy soldiers burst from a side passage, rushing to flank the Asturian archers.

  They would have struck home—but a lone figure stepped forward to meet them, his sword bursting into holy flame.

  “Fire cleanses all,” Fredrick intoned, eyes alight with fervor.

  “Their sins shall be burned away, and their souls shall rise pure to meet the Father’s judgment.”

  Then he charged.

  The first man died screaming, the second followed an instant later, the scent of scorched flesh curling through the hall as Fredrick pressed on, relentless.

  Karl, Siegfried, and the Gryphons swept in behind him, their weapons slamming into black-armored foes with brutal force.

  The ambush shattered; within moments, the hall was clear.

  “Secure the gates!” Baronsworth barked as the last foe crumpled to the stone.

  “Barricade them! Nothing comes in from outside!”

  The men leapt to obey, heaving beams into place, slamming iron bars across the doors.

  Archers posted behind the sealing gates loosed their final shots, dropping the courtyard guards as the massive portal boomed shut.

  Fredrick strode over, sword still wreathed in flame.

  “It won’t be long before they realize this hall is lost. We must move quickly.”

  Baronsworth gave a sharp nod.

  “Archers—take the great stairs and the floor above. Alexander, reinforce the gates. Hold them as long as you can; everything depends on it. Form a wall of pikes—let nothing through. Siegfried—Gryphons to the rear. Guard the bowmen. If the gates falter, strike their flanks.”

  He then turned to his closest companions.

  “Gil’Galion, Fredrick, Karl—on me.”

  A small knot of Asturians and Gryphons waited, weapons ready.

  Baronsworth pointed to them.

  “You, with us. We take the upper floors. We find Garathor.”

  They fell in without hesitation.

  Together, they mounted the sweeping stairs, climbing into the fortress’s heart.

  For a time, they moved like shadows, blades flashing in silence.

  Foes fell quietly, crumpling into dark corners as blood spread unseen across the stone.

  Then—

  A bell.

  It rang out sharp and sudden, a brazen clang that shattered the quiet.

  The sound surged through the keep, reverberating off every wall, until it felt as though the entire fortress screamed their presence.

  “Well,” Gil’Galion muttered, loosing an arrow that dropped a guard mid-shout, “so much for subtlety.”

  “Good,” Karl growled, driving his spear clean through a man’s chest and hurling him from the balustrade.

  “I’ve had enough sneaking. Give me a fight!”

  “May the gods be with us,” Fredrick breathed, sword flaring bright as he stepped into the fray.

  They climbed on, floor by floor, each landing a battleground.

  Cael Athala loomed vast before them, its defenders relentless.

  Lightbringer flashed in Baronsworth’s hand, a white arc that felled all who barred his path.

  Gil’Galion’s arrows sang; Fredrick’s blade carved a path of consecrated fire, each stroke a prayer made flame.

  Still they came—soldiers from side passages, from stairwells above—a tide of steel and hate.

  Some were poorly armed, little more than rabble with knives.

  Others wore black-forged mail and fought with grim precision.

  “Your uncle’s laid out quite the welcome!” Karl shouted over the din, wrenching his spear free of another foe.

  “This is half a damned army,” Gil’Galion called back, sending two more arrows into the upper gallery.

  Baronsworth cut down another man and turned toward the looming heights.

  “Let him send everything he has!” he roared, his voice cutting through the clash of steel.

  “It will not be enough. The Lord of Cael Athala has returned! Come out and face me, coward!”

  The words had barely left his lips when the enemy surged again—harder, fiercer, as if some unseen hand had poured venom into their veins.

  They threw themselves at him without hesitation, heedless of death.

  In the press of bodies, Baronsworth fought with the calm fury of a warrior forged in exile, each blow measured and absolute—until a flicker at the edge of sight stilled his hand.

  The man had ridden at his side for years—a brother in all but blood.

  One moment he stood; the next, a dark blade punched through his chest.

  “No!”

  He carved a path through the press, every stroke driven by grief.

  When he reached him, Fredrick was already bent over the wounded warrior, his eyes telling the truth before his words did.

  Baronsworth knelt beside them, Lightbringer’s glow spilling over the fallen man’s face.

  He pressed his shining hands to the wound, willing life back into him.

  Fredrick caught his wrists, iron-strong.

  “It’s no use.”

  “I can still save him!”

  “No, Baronsworth!” Fredrick’s voice cracked like a whip.

  “You have been given the power to heal—but only One holds dominion over life and death.”

  He released him gently, then bowed his head and whispered a prayer for the departed.

  Baronsworth stared at the still form.

  Grief hollowed him.

  The truth struck like a blade: this man had died for his cause, and his cause alone.

  “I… I swore I’d bring them home.” He whispered.

  “This man knew the cost. We all do. And still, we follow you. He fell as he chose—blade in hand, fighting for the dawn he believed in.”

  Guilt gnawed at Baronsworth.

  For the first time, the Gryphons had followed him into his war.

  They had trusted him—and already one lay dead.

  What if they all followed?

  What if the gods’ whispers were lies, delusions of a desperate soul?

  His gaze fell to the light in his palm, where his eyes grew lost, a tempest of sorrow swirling within.

  “Baronsworth!” Karl’s voice thundered over the carnage.

  “Losses are inevitable! Rare is the battle where no Gryphon falls. We chose this. We chose you. And we’ll follow you to the end—whatever end that may be.”

  The fight lulled.

  For a moment, only silence and the dead remained.

  It was then that boots hammered up the stairwell—fast, frantic.

  A young Gryphon burst into view, face streaked with blood and soot, chest heaving.

  “Milord!” he gasped, eyes darting over Baronsworth’s companions.

  “The gates won’t hold—we need every sword you can spare!”

  Baronsworth’s head snapped up.

  His men.

  His people.

  Dying below.

  “On me,” he said, voice tight.

  “Our brothers need us—now!”

  He didn’t wait for agreement.

  He turned, and they followed, thundering down the stairs towards the storm.

  On the ground floor, all eyes fixed on the gates.

  They buckled under the pounding of massive axes, timbers groaning, iron bands warping with each strike.

  Through the widening seams, torchlight glimmered on a wall of spears and grim faces, while the Asturian archers sent their arrows hissing through every crack the splintering wood would allow.

  The defenders stood ready, every muscle coiled for the moment steel would meet steel.

  “Baronsworth!” Alexander shouted over the din, blood on his brow.

  “Go! Find Garathor—we’ll hold here!”

  “But I only just—”

  “Baronsworth!” Alexander’s tone was iron.

  “This fight is beyond any one man now—we are in the hands of the gods! Stay, and all is lost. Remember the plan—cut off the head, and the body withers. Strike down Garathor, and we may yet see the dawn. Now go!”

  For a heartbeat, Baronsworth saw not Alexander’s weathered face, but his father’s—the same unyielding eyes, the same command.

  His chest tightened; then the vision passed.

  He straightened, resolve hardening like iron.

  “Astur-ed-gevannar, aen mira.” He said in the Old Tongue.

  “Strength and victory, milord,” Alexander answered quietly.

  The words had hardly left his lips when the gates gave way with a splintering roar.

  The enemy poured in—a black tide surging into the hall.

  They met not chaos, but steel—Alexander’s wall of halberds locked into place, an unbroken line of death.

  The first wave impaled itself upon the bristling points; the second was driven back under arrows loosed from the stair and the upper levels.

  The ring of arms, the cries of the wounded, and the steady roar of Alexander’s commands filled the hall.

  It was slaughter—organized, relentless—a grim display that might have pleased even the darkest gods of old.

  Baronsworth turned from the carnage below and took to the stairs, climbing into shadow.

  Behind him, the battle raged on—blades meeting blades, voices raised in agony, the deep roar of war—but he did not look back.

  His path lay above, and he walked it alone.

  The ascent seemed without end, each step carrying him deeper into a realm apart from mortal toil.

  Landings passed like the tolling of a slow bell, each marked by the dead—bodies strewn across the stone, blood black in the dim light.

  Yet still the stairs wound upward, and still he climbed.

  The Sunkeep surrounded him like a living thing—vast, ancient, and watchful.

  Its halls, once bright with banners and music, now lay smothered in silence.

  Only his footsteps stirred the air, hollow and inexorable.

  Memory came like ghosts: his child’s hand on these carved walls, his father’s voice resounding through these very corridors.

  He had dreamed of walking here again; but never had he imagined it like this, a haunted labyrinth of ruin and shadow.

  It felt as though he climbed not a fortress, but a mountain of the dead, and at its summit waited either salvation—or his doom.

  And soon, in these forsaken heights, he would come upon something he had never thought to behold again, not even in his wildest dreams.

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  ?? Happy New Year, travelers! May your days ahead be bright, your paths guided by courage, and your hearts steadfast in the Light.