The Raven: Prince of Iron and Blood.

Numeris Šeštas

Breakfast had barely begun, the smoky scent of sizzling meat with the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee. A lone sentry squinted into the horizon, the soft light playing tricks on his eyes. The rolling fields of gold and green stretched out like a giant's patchwork quilt, seamless and serene. A gentle breeze whispered secrets through the swaying grass, carrying the faint scent of dew-kissed earth. The sentry's gaze hovered over the distant treeline, where the shadows danced in a way that made him question if they were shadows at all.

"What's amiss?" the commander called out to his companion, a young recruit who was busy adjusting his ill-fitting helmet.

The recruit looked up, his eyes still adjusting to the early morning glow. "Probably just a fox, sir," he mumbled, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

But the commander's instincts were sharper than the edge of his sword. He knew the land, and he knew that the shadows didn't usually dance like that. He raised his hand, signalling for silence. The air grew thick with tension as the whispers of the wind grew louder, the rustling of leaves more insistent.

Suddenly a ragtag group of soldiers stumbled out of the trees, their faces etched with fear. They were babbling about something they'd seen, something that didn't belong in the peaceful woods. Vakarė wiped his hands over his beard and straightened up, his heart racing despite his outward calm.

A burly man named Huxley caught his breath and pointed a shaking finger at the trees. "We saw... we saw them! Eliot! He saw them! They're real, and they're here!" His eyes were wild, the whites showing like a frightened horse's. The others nodded fervently, their panting echoing through the quiet clearing.

Vakarė's expression didn't change. He'd heard the whispers before, but he'd never paid them much mind. The fae were creatures of legend, after all. "What did you see, exactly?" he asked, his voice as even as the hand that held his sword.

"They... they were north of the brook... One had had his head ripped from his shoulders. Two with their hearts ripped out. The third...his spine split open..."

"They... they just appeared," Žydrūnas managed. "Took two of our men, right out from under us. Just grabbed them and threw them in the air! They fell like... like rocks!" His words trailed off into a horrified silence.

Suddenly, the shadows grew darker, more defined. They weren't shadows at all—they were wings, a hundred pairs of them, blacker than the night that had just retreated. Vakarė's heart skipped a beat as the unmistakable silhouettes of the Ravens took form, their claws glinting in the early light.

"Sound the alarm!" he bellowed, his voice cracking in the chilled morning air as a desperate plea. Flickering from moment to moment, the recruit fumbled with his horn, hands trembling from more than just the cold. It felt as though each breath carried the weight of the universe—the certainty that they were about to face an unimaginable reckoning. Finally, with a desperate puff, the horn blared; three short blasts reverberated throughout the encampment, slicing through the laughter like an executioner's blade.

It was a call to arms, a cry of danger. The camp erupted as if awakened from a dream—wooden tables overturned, food scattered like forgotten memories, and men scrambled for their weapons, fears intermingling with an adrenaline-fueled fervour.

"They come," Vakarė murmured, his voice a harsh whisper that seemed to carry on the wind. His men nodded grimly, each one drawing out their sharpened weapons. The human army of Faryn was close, and they had no time for second thoughts or doubt.

The first glint of sunrise pierced the sky, a crimson blaze that mirrored the fury in Ravens' eyes. Vakarė raised his sword, a silent signal that resonated through the ranks. As one, the Ravens took to the skies, their powerful wings beating in unison. Faryns' eyes widened at the sight of the soaring Ravens, but they held firm, their discipline unshaken. The thunderous charge of their carnivorous bodies sent tremors through the ground, a wave of destruction aimed at the heart of the Prince's formation.