Althar Hawke

The metallic sound of his armor plates echoed through the grand hall as Althar walked towards the armory. Ravengard's castle was restless that night. The corridors, usually filled with sycophantic nobles and whispering messengers, were now occupied by soldiers preparing for the imminent battle. The torches cast distorted shadows against the stone walls, as if the fortress itself were watching what was to come.

The commander did not give in to superstitions, but there was something different that night. The informants had confirmed that the so-called Silent Rebellion was on the move, and he knew what that meant: an attack was imminent. He had faced traitors before—disorganized bands of insurgents without a clear purpose, desperate men who fell easily under the blade of a sword. But this time was different. This time, there was method, intelligence, and, worse, determination.

Upon entering the armory, Althar picked up his sword from the dark oak table and ran the sharpening stone along the blade, though it was already sharp enough to cut through flesh with a simple glide. A habit. Something he did before every battle. It kept his hands busy, his mind focused.

One of the captains hurried in, his eyes showing restrained apprehension.

"The scouts spotted movement in the forest to the south, sir. Small groups, advancing without torches. It’s them."

Althar didn’t take his eyes off his blade.

"Let them come."

The captain hesitated for a moment, as if expecting more instructions, but none came. Althar knew his men were ready. He had trained them personally, shaping them like blades of steel, forging lethal warriors. And if the rebellion dared to attack, they would pay the price for their audacity.

The moon high in the sky bathed the castle walls with its pale light as Althar ascended to the watchtower. From there, he could see the darkness of the forest spreading like a black ocean, hiding those who wished for his death. His eyes scanned the shadows, searching for signs of movement. A war was not won only by the strength of steel, but by anticipating the enemy’s steps.

The first arrow was shot. Fast as a viper, it cut through the wind and lodged itself in one of the guards on the wall. The man’s scream was barely heard before another arrow silenced his voice.

Althar didn’t hesitate.

"Ring the bells! Defend the walls!"

The metallic sound of the alarm filled the air. The gates were reinforced, archers took position, and Ravengard’s soldiers lined up. Then, they came. Emerging from the shadows like specters, the Silent Rebellion advanced, their fury silenced only by the steel they wielded.

The impact was brutal. Blades clashed, arrows ripped through the sky, and the smell of blood soon dominated the air. Althar moved like a storm, his sword piercing armor and flesh with lethal precision. He didn’t shout orders—his men knew what to do.

In the midst of the chaos, he felt something. A gaze. A presence that didn’t belong to the indistinct crowd of enemies and allies.

He turned, and there they were.

The battle raged around them, but for a moment, time seemed to hesitate. Althar did not move his sword immediately. He sized them up with sharp eyes, recognizing the determination on the face before him. This was no ordinary soldier. There was something different.

The war cries roared, but the silence between the two was absolute. Althar slowly crossed his arms, a calculated gesture, assessing them as a predator watches its prey.

"Interesting..." The word came out almost like a murmur, but heavy with meaning. He underestimated no one, least of all those who approached without fear.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever came next.

Althar kept his eyes fixed on them, his gaze determined and unwavering. The sound of the battle around them seemed to fade, as if the whole world had condensed into the small space between him and them. The scent of blood and iron was still in the air, but the commander did not let himself be distracted. Everything around him moved in a frantic rhythm, but he remained firm, focused.

Each step he took toward them was meticulously calculated. Althar knew this was the moment to face the enemy, but it was also the moment to measure the strength and courage of those who dared challenge the crown. He approached with the calmness of a monk, but with the ferocity of a warrior. The metal of his armor reflected the torchlight, casting threatening shadows as he drew closer.

Finally, he stopped before them. Althar’s gaze, penetrating and calculating, did not waver. He spoke with an authoritative tone, but there was a slight smile of challenge in his voice. "You think you can challenge the entire kingdom and walk away unscathed?"

The wind blew strong, but his words were firm, as though cutting through the very air. He wasn’t waiting for an answer. He knew the situation was beyond any conversation—it was a matter of survival.