Figures in dark armor burst from the undergrowth, charging down the slopes, their blades flashing in the dim light. Their shields bore an unfamiliar sigil—a burning crown wreathed in nine figures of flame. Swords clashed. Horses reared. The company of House Tyndale had only seconds to react before they were swallowed by death.

Rystrka ripped his sword free just as the first enemy knight came for him, their armor so dark it seemed to drink in the light itself.

The knight lunged, sword arcing toward Rystrka’s throat. He barely twisted in his saddle in time, the blade skimming past his face, close enough to leave a cold kiss of steel against his cheek. He struck back without thinking, his own sword flashing upward. Their blades met with a shriek of metal, the jolt reverberating up his arm.

His enemy was fast—unnaturally so. The knight’s blackened armor blurred in the chaos, making it difficult to track his movements. Rystrka roared, wrenching his sword free and pressing the attack, hacking and thrusting as his horse reared beneath him.

To his left, Lord Tyndale struck one down with a brutal downward stroke, but as quickly as the knight fell, another was upon him. Auster, Jaymes’ son, fought desperately nearby, his young face twisted in terror as he parried a flurry of blows.

“Kyllan!” Rystrka roared, twisting in the saddle, searching for his squire. He spotted him just in time to see a black-armored knight bearing down, sword raised high.

“Guard high!” he bellowed.

Kyllan barely managed to lift his shield before the enemy’s blade slammed into it, the force of the blow knocking him clean from his horse. The boy hit the ground hard, his body crumpling into the snow.

Rage flared in Rystrka’s chest. He roared, hacking down his own opponent with a vicious blow, then spurred his horse toward Kyllan. He brought his sword down in a heavy arc at the knight looming over the boy, but his strike was intercepted mid-air—another knight stepped in, blocking the attack with effortless precision.

Before Rystrka could react, the knight grabbed him and, with unnatural strength, hurled him from the saddle. The world spun as he crashed into the snow-covered road, the breath ripped from his lungs. His sword skidded from his grasp, landing just out of reach. Pain flared through his ribs as he rolled onto his side, the cold biting into his exposed skin.

The armored knight loomed over him, a living shadow cast by the dying light.

Around him, the battle raged. Lord Jaymes was still mounted, his sword a blur of silver as he cut through the enemy. Auster fought by his side, his strikes frantic but strong. Sir Drox had dismounted, fighting like a cornered wolf, his blade carving through the dark-clad knights with terrifying efficiency.

But it was not enough.

More of them emerged from the trees, moving with the discipline of trained killers. For every one felled, two more took their place. The road to Thalvaren was becoming a killing ground.

The knight pressed harder on Rystrka’s arm, forcing him onto his back.

Then, he spoke. His voice was a low, unnatural rasp, distorted by the helm.

“Enough. You are defeated. There is no shame in it.”

Rystrka bared his teeth. “An ambush. Blood-slicked mud. And you call this battle?” Even through the thick plates of the knight’s gauntlet, the strength behind it was undeniable. The burning in Rystrka’s muscles told him there was no breaking free. “You don’t want to fight in honorable combat?”

The knight didn’t rise to the bait. His grip remained firm, pressing Rystrka down into the frozen dirt. The crown on his chestplate gleamed as he leaned in closer.

“Honor?” the knight murmured, his voice hollow and distant, like echoes in a crypt. He spat beside Rystrka’s face. “Honor is for the dead.”

The knight tightened his grip, gauntlet grinding against bone. Rystrka’s vision blurred at the edges, but he refused to look away from the hollow blackness behind the knight’s visor. If this was to be his end, he would meet it with his eyes open.

But then—

“Enough.”

The word cut through the din of battle like a blade through silk. It wasn’t shouted, but the authority behind it was undeniable. The knight pinning Rystrka froze, his grip loosening just enough for air to rush back into Rystrka’s lungs.

From the treeline emerged another figure, his mere presence parting the chaos as though the world itself obeyed him. His armor shared the same ominous darkness as the others, but it was different—sleeker, refined, forged not for battle, but for dominion. Draped across his shoulders was a pristine snow-white cloak, its edges trimmed intricately with gold, untouched by the blood and grime staining the earth. The stark contrast made him seem otherworldly, a specter of authority amidst the carnage.

He was larger than the rest, standing nearly a head and a half taller, his massive frame making even the armored knights around him seem small. The very ground seemed to recoil beneath his steps.

“I want the rest alive,” he commanded, his voice cold, deliberate.

The knight above Rystrka hesitated, his gauntlet trembling slightly before he released his grip entirely. Rystrka gasped, rolling to his side, but the weight of defeat still pressed down heavier than any gauntlet could.

Around him, the clash of steel slowed, the disciplined killers falling back into formation, their blades lowered but ready. The ambush was over—not because the fight was won, but because he had said so.

Through the haze of pain, Rystrka’s eyes flicked to where Kyllan had fallen. Two knights were dragging his squire’s limp body through the snow. He wasn’t dead—Rystrka could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest—but he was motionless, his shield hanging from one hand, his sword lost somewhere in the churned, blood-streaked snow.

Rage clawed at Rystrka’s throat, but all he could do was rasp, “Who… are you?”

The knight with the white cloak stepped closer, his gaze hidden behind his helm, but Rystrka felt the weight of it all the same. The man’s shadow fell across him, cold and suffocating.

“It does not matter,” the knight replied, his tone almost indifferent, as if Rystrka’s question was beneath him. “We all have the same goal.”

He lingered for a heartbeat longer, then turned away, his cloak billowing behind him like a shroud. As he moved through the battlefield, the knights parted for him in silence, their discipline unnerving. There was no celebration of victory, no jeers at the fallen—just the cold, mechanical efficiency of men who had done this before, and would do it again.

Rystrka watched them drag his comrades from the snow, their fates unknown. The road to Thalvaren was no longer a path—it was a message, written in blood and defeat.

And whatever their goal was, Rystrka knew it was far from over.