The Last Order

Chapter 1: The Last Knight

The battlefield was silent now. The cries of war had died down, leaving only the rustling of wind through the trees and the soft clatter of armor. Valen stood at the edge of the carnage, his eyes scanning the broken land. Bodies littered the ground—soldiers from both sides, their once vibrant banners now bloodstained and tattered. Smoke rose from the remains of shattered siege weapons, and the distant mountains loomed like silent sentinels over the devastation.

Valen's armor, ancient and battle-worn, was streaked with dried blood. His once gleaming chest plate was dulled with scratches, dents, and the weight of time. His crimson cape, torn at the edges, fluttered weakly in the breeze, a symbol of forgotten valor. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke and iron, mingling with the metallic tang of the blood-soaked earth beneath his boots.

In the mist that clung to the ground, Valen could barely make out the faces of the fallen. His green eyes, sharp and piercing beneath the shadow of his helm, flickered with something more than just sorrow. It was a deeper, older pain, a burden he had carried for far too long.

He knelt down beside a fallen soldier, a young boy barely older than sixteen. The boy's eyes were wide open, frozen in a mixture of fear and surprise. Valen closed them gently with his gloved hand, murmuring a silent prayer under his breath. "May you find peace in the next life," he whispered. Yet, even as the words left his lips, they felt hollow. Peace was a fleeting dream—one that had eluded Valen for many years.

He rose to his feet, staring out into the mist, where the battle had raged only hours before. His mind, however, was far from the battlefield. Thoughts of duty weighed heavily upon him. The relic he sought to protect—an artifact of forgotten magic—was still out there, hidden in the ancient ruins he had been searching for. It was the last of its kind, a powerful object imbued with a magic that predated kingdoms and empires. Magic that was dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands.

For years, Valen had wandered the realm, a shadow of his former self, a knight with no order to call his own. The Brotherhood he had once sworn allegiance to was gone, wiped out in a war that no one remembered anymore. Only the relic remained, and with it, his oath. An oath to protect it, even if it cost him his life.

As he stood there, alone on the field of death, his mind drifted back to the battle. It had been a small skirmish, hardly worth the bloodshed. Bandits, desperate for coin, had attacked a supply caravan traveling south. Valen had intervened, knowing the dangers of even the smallest disturbance in these lands. War was brewing, and even the lowliest of thieves could sense it in the air. The real threat, however, lay in the whispers that traveled faster than the wind.

Zorath Rendar.

The name lingered in Valen's mind like a plague, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Zorath, the dark mage whose name had spread like wildfire across the realm. He was no ordinary man. Rumors painted him as a sorcerer of immense power, one who dabbled in forbidden magic and sought to reshape the world in his twisted image. Valen had heard tales of Zorath's growing influence—towns that had fallen to his army of mercenaries, entire villages that had vanished overnight, and dark magic that warped the land wherever he tread.

It wasn't just the devastation that concerned Valen; it was the whispers of what Zorath was truly after. The relic. His relic.

Valen clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, which glowed faintly with an ethereal light. The sword was as ancient as the relic itself, a weapon passed down through generations of the Brotherhood. It had seen countless battles, and yet, like its wielder, it seemed tired—tired of fighting, tired of the weight it carried.

In the distance, Valen heard the crunch of boots on gravel. His eyes narrowed as he turned to see a young messenger approaching through the fog, his face pale, eyes wide with fear. The boy stumbled, his breath ragged as he reached Valen.

"Sir Valen!" the boy gasped, his chest heaving. "I bring news... from the south. Zorath Rendar... he's gathering forces. He's coming."

Valen's heart sank. He had expected this, but hearing it confirmed felt like a blade to his chest. "How long?" Valen asked, his voice low and steady.

"A week, maybe less," the boy stammered. "His army... it's vast. They're moving towards the ruins near the Old Forest. The king's scouts reported seeing... strange things. Magic. Dark magic."

The ruins. Of course. That was where the relic was hidden, buried beneath stone and time, protected by ancient wards that only Valen and his Order knew how to break. If Zorath reached the relic before Valen, it would be a disaster.

Valen exhaled slowly, trying to keep the rising tension in his chest under control. His thoughts raced, calculating the time it would take to reach the ruins, the steps he would need to take to ensure Zorath never laid hands on the relic. But doubt crept into his mind. He was only one man—a knight without an army, a protector without a cause. How could he hope to stop a force as powerful as Zorath alone?

But then, Valen reminded himself, he had always been alone.

For years, he had wandered the realm, shouldering the weight of his duty. He had no allies, no kingdom to rally behind him. His path was his own, as it always had been. And yet, there was a quiet strength in that solitude. It allowed him to move unseen, to strike when least expected. The shadows were his refuge, the silence his shield.

Valen turned to the boy, his green eyes hardening. "Go back to the king. Tell him to prepare his defenses. Zorath's not coming for the kingdom just yet—he's coming for the relic."

The boy blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "The... relic? But I thought—"

"Do as I say," Valen interrupted, his tone firm. "And tell no one else. Zorath must not know that we are aware of his plans."

The boy nodded quickly, fear still evident in his eyes. He gave a quick bow and sprinted back toward the direction he had come from, disappearing into the mist.

Valen watched him go, his thoughts heavy. The king would do what he could, but Zorath's power was growing faster than any kingdom could prepare for. And once Zorath had the relic, there would be no stopping him. The world would be reshaped in darkness, and all the kingdoms of men would fall.

Valen looked down at his sword, the faint glow pulsating like a heartbeat. The weight of his oath pressed down on him like a heavy cloak, but he knew there was no turning back now. He had made a promise—a promise to protect the relic, no matter the cost. And he would see it through, even if it meant walking into the heart of darkness itself.

With a final glance at the battlefield, Valen sheathed his sword and began walking, his figure disappearing into the mist, like a ghost of the past.

The Last Knight was on the move, and the world would soon remember his name.

4o