Spectral Claws
Kapua, South Gate
Fire raged in the distance, and the air was thick with an acrid stench. The crossbow duel at the entrance to the South Gate had grown fiercer. The four men tried to outmaneuver the guards defending the gate and stairs, their assault overwhelming, enabled by their rapid-firing crossbows. But their attack faltered when their Mage Knight champion stood motionless, struck by a violent force that made the air snap and hiss around him.
“Master!” the squire shouted, running toward his fallen commander, shield and spear in hand.
“No, don’t!” one of the four men warned, but the youth kept going, driven by loyalty.
“Ha!” The Royal Mage rose from where he had been kneeling and barked as he conjured a translucent half-dome shield to guard against any possible attack. Sweat dripped from his chin, his breath ragged, yet his voice carried strength. “You’re too confident, Sir Executioner. You walked right into my trap.”
In the distance, the Mage Knight gave no response but remained still, crackles of strange light dancing across his armor, while his flamberge lay across the stone floor.
The Royal Mage continued to gloat, mocking the fallen Mage Knight. “Do you think that just because I never joined a guild, I lack talent? But I am a genius. I taught myself to wield Static Charge.”
The rare technique was inscribed within one of the tomes he had acquired as payment for his service in the Capital.
“Master!” the squire called, rushing to the unmoving Sir Morton.
“Tsk!” The Royal Mage clicked his tongue in irritation. The squire’s stubbornness and display of loyalty were a nuisance to his eyes. He drew upon his source and began to siphon the air around the two, forming a growing pocket of vacuum.
As if sensing the danger, from another corner, a few bolts thundered toward his position, forcing him to shift his focus and swing his ethereal shield to intercept them. “Great. Even more of them?”
The Royal Mage looked around but saw that his allies were still locked in battle, unable to break free. Everyone except him seemed blind to the newcomer who moved among the shadows. Snarling under his breath, he redirected his power, shaping a wide pocket of vacuum meant to strike them all at once. “Prepare to die!”
Dust began to swirl around the newcomers’ position, twisting into spirals as the air was drawn away.
Without anyone’s notice but the squire’s, the unmoving figure suddenly twitched, one arm jerking to life.
“Master!” the squire shouted, just before that same arm swung and struck him aside. The youth tumbled down, his shield clattering against the stone, but he understood at once. Scrambling to his feet, he left the shield behind and ran with only his spear.
The Royal Mage caught the squire’s movement from the corner of his eye and grew suspicious. Instinctively, he leapt back, keeping both his vacuum spell and his translucent shield intact. His gaze shifted to the silent figure again, and his pulse hammered as he saw the arm move.
The Mage Knight seized the front of his breastplate and yanked hard. Leather straps tore apart with a harsh snap, and he flung the armor aside. No ordinary man could have done that, but his bones, muscles, and skin were hardened beyond human limits.
“Impossible...” The Royal Mage’s voice broke through the cold night as the black armor hit the stones with a heavy clatter.
His shout drew every gaze. A wave of shock and disbelief rippled through the guards as the figure continued to stir, though only his right arm moved at first. Then, without warning, he suddenly struck his chest with such force that everyone could hear the pounding. He did it twice, then a third time, before suddenly taking a deep, rasping breath, like a man clawing back from death.
The Royal Mage could not believe his eyes. No one had ever survived that spell, yet the figure turned toward him, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his gauntlet.
“What a remarkable spell,” the figure said coldly, prompting his men to grin nervously as they continued to fight while his squire shed manly tears of relief. “I felt something was off. Turned out my heart had stopped beating, but now it’s back again.”
The Royal Mage was sweating inside his armor. Yet, he kept directing his vacuum toward the four newcomers’ positions, determined to diminish their number.
Ignoring his fallen flamberge, Sir Morton bolted forward, drawing his rondel dagger. He had likely broken a rib or two from striking his chest, his muscles were sluggish, and there were probably other unwanted effects from the Static Charge, yet he was back in the fight.
The Royal Mage brandished his broadsword once more. Yet he knew he could not fight, maintain his ethereal shield, and sustain a wide-area vacuum all at once. Even his battle-honed focus wasn’t that sharp. Despite the youthful visage of a man in his early forties, he was well past fifty. At last, he released the vacuum, and the four men under its effect suddenly breathed far more easily.
Sir Morton closed the distance and leapt to strike, his rondel dagger in hand.
“Do not mock me!” The Royal Mage shifted his half-dome ethereal shield toward Sir Morton like a shield bash, crashing into him with a violent burst of wind meant to break his charge.
Yet Sir Morton did not flinch. He lunged forward, aiming for the Royal Mage’s exposed face. The man sidestepped and launched a heavy, wide slash, but Sir Morton did not step back and took the blow head-on. With a harsh clang, he blocked the broadsword with his rondel dagger.
But the weapon’s weight and the man’s stance gave the Royal Mage the edge, driving the blow down onto Sir Morton’s armored arm.
Sir Morton gritted his teeth as it hit. The Royal Mage heaved and pulled, stepping in as he readied his weapon for another swing. Sir Morton gambled on a shallow strike, catching the broadsword as it was drawn back and breaking the man’s stance. In that same motion, his dagger swung toward the Royal Mage’s face.
Realizing the danger, the man instinctively raised his left arm to block.
Sir Morton had anticipated it. He threw his entire weight and enhanced strength behind the strike. The rondel dagger, more akin to a sharpened chisel than a blade, scraped against the metal surface before finding the flared edge and piercing through as it was designed to do.
The Royal Mage gasped in pain, not realizing his forearm bone had broken. He tried to counter with a pommel strike, but Sir Morton, without hesitation, swatted the heavy blade’s downward thrust aside with his left arm.
In that split moment when both had launched their attack and counter, the two locked gazes, so close they could sense each other’s sweat and murderous intent.
Sir Morton flashed a dangerous grin, prompting the Royal Mage to ignore his bleeding gauntlet. The man jumped back several steps and raised his weapon for a two-handed diagonal strike.
Flicking his rondel dagger free of blood, Sir Morton advanced slowly. From the corner of his eye, he saw his first group of four men keeping the guards pinned down, allowing the second group to advance up the stairs from another direction. Turning back to his opponent, he taunted, “You’re not too talented in a brawl. You’ve spent too much time fighting weaker opponents, haven’t you?”
“I rarely find strong opponents,” the Royal Mage retorted, “simply because I was too strong.”
Sir Morton merely smirked in the dark like a jackal mocking its prey. “Fighting the weak only makes you weaker.”
Despite the broadsword’s reach, the Royal Mage jumped back instead and began running away.
Sir Morton gave chase in silence, refusing to let his opponent prepare a Static Charge, which he knew required time and control over an area. The Royal Mage fled from the South Gate district, through the empty streets, and into the housing quarter, with Sir Morton close on his heels.
Despite the darkness, the two moved unbothered. Their magic heightened their heart, lungs, veins, and blood flow. The Royal Mage stopped only when Sir Morton drew too close. His dagger slashed, forcing the man to block and turning the fight once again into a close, brutal melee. Silver flashed in the dark as the broadsword struck against the small yet nimble rondel dagger.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Guhh,” the older fighter grunted as Sir Morton’s blade grazed his cheek.
He tried to step back, but Sir Morton’s fist crashed into the side of his helmet.
“Ack!” The man fell sideways, his heavy armor clattering against the cobbled street.
Meanwhile, Sir Morton spat to the side, his saliva thick with blood. All that high-speed chase had not sat well with his broken rib. Still, he pressed forward, advancing with his dagger in his right hand, lowered but menacing. “You’re burdened too much.”
“Don’t lecture me.” The Royal Mage rose and steadied his broadsword. His strength remained, but the pain in his head and left wrist warned him that death lingered near.
Around them, a faint metallic scent emerged, and dust stirred briefly before settling again.
Sir Morton paused and raised both hands to his chest level. With a flick, he tossed the dagger from one hand to the other and said, “Where are my manners? You’ve shown me your Static Charge. How could I not respond in kind?”
Gripping his broadsword tight, the Royal Mage replied, “The Guild teaches nothing but basics. I’ve faced your kind many times in the Capital.”
Hearing that, Sir Morton lowered his left hand with the dagger, muttering, “Praise fate that led me to meet many incredible people. Otherwise, I might never have outgrown my cage.”
“Is that a prayer?” the man taunted.
Sir Morton did not respond but calmly recalled Sir Harold’s advice to hone one’s skill through battle itself, to keep fighting in pursuit of perfection. As a Mage Knight, he had once dismissed such advice as folly. Every mage knew the Source was not infinite. Yet the words of the man who had fought him to a standstill continued to echo in his mind. Without realizing it, he threw himself into battle again and again, each time pushing himself to the limit. He found that not only did his skill sharpen, but his command of magic deepened as well.
The result had opened his eyes. The teachings of the Guild were either mistaken, incomplete, or deliberately kept secret. From then on, he began to forge his own path. Slowly, he could feel it. The hero’s legend was no childish tale.
Instead of trying to guard against another Static Charge, which he knew was being prepared, Sir Morton flexed his right arm and hand, focusing his magic into it. Suddenly, a ghastly form began to gather around the limb. It was akin to the forming of his ethereal shield, yet its shape was different. It looked organic, almost alive, resembling a great shadowy hand, like a second pair of gauntlets.
The Royal Mage stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief. He had never seen such a thing before. Feeling his enemy was up to something, he ceased concealing his preparation for Static Charge and summoned every ounce of his Source, flooding the area with magic to a critical level.
Dust swirled high, a sharp metallic scent filled the alley, and a low crackle hummed in the air.
But Sir Morton stood still, his ethereal claw glimmering faintly. He had become so adept at shaping the ethereal shield that anyone could see it forming like a heater shield. Now, using the same principle, he had manifested it around his right arm, shaping it into a fully formed translucent hand with long, sharp claws. As he flexed his fingers, the shadowy hand followed his every motion.
[Stati—]
The Royal Mage let out a strangled cry as something seized him from behind. A massive ethereal gauntlet had appeared out of nowhere, its translucent armored fingers clamping over his helmet, gripping his head, neck, and upper body. Panic struck as his arms struggled against the unseen force, his heavy armor grinding and clattering. Only then did he realize that his opponent’s shadowy right hand had been nothing more than a distraction, meant to draw his attention from the real strike. The ghostly gauntlet was enormous in size and disturbingly solid, unlike the common translucent shield, and it had formed in complete silence.
Despite the Royal Mage’s enhanced strength, the spectral claws curled tightly around his head and shoulders, crushing and suffocating him as he struggled in vain, his arms tearing at the translucent fingers that held him fast.
Sir Morton let the shadowy form on his right hand fade and calmly approached the man.
Before the heavily armored mage, Sir Morton stopped and said, “Gratitude for running toward dark places. I prefer not to let any soul witness this.”
The Royal Mage gurgled, rasping for air.
“I want to study your Static Charge,” Sir Morton continued, his tone level, “but it’s against my policy to let an assassin roam free. From your aura, I can tell you’ve taken many innocent lives.”
The struggling mage seemed to want to speak, but his face was nearly smothered by the ethereal gauntlet formed of gathered wind, sand, and dust. That spectral gauntlet was the reason Sir Morton hadn’t formed a shield on his left arm and fought only with a dagger, freeing his mental focus.
“I hope you keep your tome somewhere inside that oversized armor. That will be my prize. Now,” his tone turned final, “let the darkness claim you.”
[Beastman’s Bane]
The ethereal gauntlet unleashed its power and tightened its grip. The man struggled with all his might, his armor clanging and shifting as he was lifted several inches off the ground before the inevitable happened. His body jerked, limbs trembling, followed by a faint stream of urine that seeped out as he convulsed. Just as he had stolen the breath of many victims, his own end came by the same breathless death he had given to others.
Sir Morton finally released the spectral grip, letting the lifeless body drop onto the cobbled road. Only then did he pour magic into his broken ribs.
Normally, Guild members refrain from killing mages. Even the worst rogues were rarely executed. Instead, their kneecaps were surgically removed, making healing impossible and leaving them crippled for life. Afterward, they were confined to cellars to work for food, cooling storage chambers with their magic. Those who refused were sold to the Eastern Kingdom, where darker fates awaited.
Kneeling, he removed his armored glove and began unlatching the dead man’s armor. He searched for a necklace but found none. When he reached inside the breastplate, he discovered three folded letters bound with waxed linen.
Rogue mages had no guild, and trust was rare. Thus, they often carried their secrets with them, studying the words from time to time to reach greater mastery of their craft. With luck, one of these letters might contain a better method to understand Static Charge, for what the guild possessed was impossibly archaic.
Taking the letters and finding nothing else but a coin purse filled with gold, silver, and at least two golden rings, Sir Morton quietly plunged his rondel dagger into the man’s heart to prevent unwanted things. Dead powerful men attracted fell beasts, and in war-ridden lands, the possibility of one lurking around was high.
Sir Morton pulled his dagger and wiped it on the fallen man’s tunic, then took one of the long straps from the man’s harness and dragged the body through the empty streets. In complete darkness, he hummed a quiet melody, satisfied that his mission was likely over. His men were armed to the teeth, and since their insertion a few days ago, they had not used even a single bolt. Now, they were doing exactly what they had trained for.
After trudging for several minutes, dragging the body without hurry since he was confident in his men’s ability, Sir Morton returned to the South Gate’s vast inner yard. Fires were still burning in the distance. There at the gatehouse, he saw the surviving guards surrendering, throwing down their weapons, outmatched by his SAR and the Black Knights.
He looked around but saw no sign of the Guard Captain who had come with the Royal Mage, likely fled to the battlements. Yet it mattered little. His fate, along with the remnants of his army and Kapua itself, was already sealed.
Inside the city, the newly arrived Dawn elites were prowling the streets, doing their best to sow chaos. Outside the walls, Dawn’s new cavalry, nearly three hundred horsemen strong, had set an ambush north of the city, the only route for the retreating troops from Kapua.
Meanwhile, Sir Morton and his team would escape south, where his airship was waiting. His task was complete, and his next destination was Three Hills, where a bride awaited him.
As for Kapua, in a few days Lord Avery himself would march his troops to seize the city. Yet even if he failed to reclaim it, the outcome would remain the same. The Nicopola mercenary warlords, once unified under the King, had now fractured and would soon turn on each other for dominance.
It was a bitter irony that peace for Dawn and the rest of Nicopola would come only when these mercenary warlords tore each other apart.
Lord Avery had confided in Sir Morton that his plan was not to make a move for a few years, content to watch them fight among themselves. Only when their strength diminished, or one sought an alliance, would he intervene in a limited capacity. For now, all he wanted was to rest his exhausted force and build anew, knowing that future conflict was inevitable.
But that was a plan for another time. Tonight, they would celebrate their triumph. The revenge at Kapua was complete. King Nico, his high-ranking officers, and trusted retainers were lost in the fire that consumed Kapua Castle. Without them, the Nicopola Kingdom would be crippled and likely end as it had begun, amid blood and chaos.
***
Canardia Castle
The next morning, having taken the herbal remedies prepared by his trusted physician, whose contents and effects he knew well, and after forcing down a small bowl of duck egg broth, Lord Lansius, still carrying a slight fever, went to lead the morning court. His intent was announced by the herald in the Great Hall, stirring the gathered members. The duty was usually Lord Robert’s. Many had come from distant places and had not expected to lay their eyes upon the Lord Shogun, the true ruler of South Midlandia.
To many, the man resembled a myth, a foreigner who rose when the Imperium was in great decline. The man who had won wars and chose to marry his squire instead of a noble’s daughter. The man who brought peace to war-torn Lowlandia. The man who crushed a thirty-thousand-man rebellion in a single night.
For his enemies, he was the Black Demon.
For the members of his House, his vassals, and his subjects, he was the constant victor.
His growing fever lent a reddish hue to his skin and face, making him appear even more tanned. His eyes carried a tired weight. The easy cheer he showed among close allies was absent, replaced by a somber air as he and Lady Audrey strode toward the high table.
“My Lord,” the forty-six court members and guests greeted, bowing and curtsying as he and Lady Audrey took their seats.
The first thing the Lord did was turn to his right. Lord Robert stood there without a chair, stiff with formality. He set his gaze on Sir Omin. “Fetch Lord Robert a chair. The nicest we have.”
Movement rippled at once. Three servants, led by another, hurried a sturdy oaken chair forward, its legs thumping on the stone.
Perhaps sensing that the Lord was not as fit, Lord Robert did not protest. He merely kept a thin smile and inclined his head before sitting not far from the Lord Shogun.
Much of the decorum within the Shogunate was still in its early days. Customs were still being set, and habits had yet to take root. Even so, respect gathered within the Great Hall, and the men and women of the court watched the leaders of the Great Houses with a care that bordered on awe.
The second thing he said was, “Sir Omin, summon Lady Ella of Dawn. We have matters to discuss.”
It became clear to everyone in the court that this was no ordinary morning session where nobles and guests came to plead their woes and seek support or judgment. Today was different. Something important, perhaps even monumental, was about to unfold, the kind of moment that would be remembered and spoken of long after they left these halls. The air itself turned heavy with anticipation.
The doors of the Great Hall opened once more, and a young red-haired lady in a pearly white dress stepped inside. The guest who had arrived aboard the majestic ivory airship that captured half of Midlandia’s attention was finally making her mark.
***
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