[POV Seraphina Third-Person Omniscient] [Tense: Past]
06:30 p.m. - At Drakensvale War Tent, Eryndral Border. (10 September 2025)
The canvas breathed smoke, oil, old sweat. Torchlight jumped, shadows crawled. A scarred map lay scored by knives, wine-dark at the corners. Lords and barons pressed in, armour rasping, breath hot.
"MORE DRAGONS, THAT'S WHAT WE NEED! WE HIT HARD AND BURN FASTER. WE CANNOT LET THEM BREATHE!"
Varrik's scar knotted as he loomed, an axe about to fall.
Lyscia tapped the inked circle of Eryndral. "Two hundred villagers with pitchforks won't hold those walls. Garrison there, and we turn the village into a trap for Draemyr."
Mersha folded her fingers, helm tucked against her hip. "Force him into the open, and he drags us into a ditch. He never fights fair."
Voices clashed like struck metal. Seraphina kept her hands flat on the table, black-red steel drinking firelight.
"Cease."
Silence fell. Eyes turned.
(I would not spend lives for pride. Hold them together.)
Varrik glowered. "You want us to stop using what works? Strength and fire win wars, Seraphina, not hesitation."
"Loyalty frays when fed only fear. Obedience lasts a night. I need men who stand for life."
Mersha's jaw worked. Years had carved quiet lines there. "You choose caution, little sister." We should wait for Dragon Knight.
Seraphina's hand found her dragonfire hilt.
"Mersha… your counsel steadied me. But we cannot let him gathering."
"Easy to say from a warm tent. Will walls and banners stop that monster?"
Varrik jabbed Eryndral until the parchment creaked. "Blackfen Gorge. Ten thousand dead. If we sit, he rebuilds. We take Eryndral tonight. Cut his lines. Force him out."
Lyscia's gaze stayed cool. "Most of Aurelthorn soldiers still only use ordinary bows; their technology is still very weak, so we don't even need to worry about that in ground combat."
"Logical, if the battle is on the plains, not in the forest." Mersha snapped. "Last winter you called burning that village logical. Look at the ash. He will use that hate."
A burned winter pressed behind Seraphina's eyes. She breathed it down.
"I promised you land, Mersha."
Mersha crushed the map. "You promised me rest near the Silver Peaks."
"The deed is signed. Ten leagues of vineyards."
"Do not buy me like a sellsword. After Eryndral, what fixes this?"
A runner's whisper cut in; Lyscia did not look away. "Our dragon never returned. Too long. We move without it. Infantry only."
"We could not idle for a dead wyrm," Varrik growled. "The men expect orders. Infantry moves tonight."
"If the dragon is gone, we do not wait," Seraphina answered. "We take Eryndral with boots and blades. No blind charges."
(We act now. No waste.)
"I lead the Ashen Wing," Mersha said. "We go first, feel the walls, break his gathering."
"We hold the east road," Lyscia traced the Sylva. "Reserve on the west hill. If he shows, we warn of his ambush."
"Midnight." Her finger marked the hour. "No banners. No torches on the approach."
Varrik slammed his palm. The map jumped. "TONIGHT, DRAKENSVALE DOES NOT NEED MONSTERS TO BREAK MEN. OUR INFANTRY WILL MAKE THE AVARNITH BURN."
Muted cheers rolled. Fear rode with resolve.
"Keep your men close," Seraphina told Mersha. "No revenge."
"I will drag him from the wood if I must."
Outside, warhorns answered. Boots thudded. Pikes hissed on whetstone. The camp moved. Seraphina fastened her cloak and stepped into the chill, careless of omens, certain only of movement.
---
07:00 p.m. - At Drakensvale Camp, Eryndral Border. (10 September 2025)
Torches threw a furnace glow over mail and eyes. The wind dragged smoke across the ranks until it stung. Seraphina stood below the platform, cloak unpinned, careless of the cold. Lords and barons crowded the rail, rings bright, breath white.
Varrik lifted steel. The camp tightened.
"WARRIORS OF DRAKENSVALE! LOOK AT THOSE MEN BESIDE YOU! EACH ONE FORGED IN FIRE! EACH ONE STOOD WHEN OTHERS FLED!"
Spears hammered shields. A roar rolled out, thicker than the smoke. Horses tossed and stamped. Helm-crests shivered like reeds.
"DO YOU REMEMBER BLACKFEN GORGE? TEN THOUSAND TAKEN! DRAEMYR THINKS WE SLEEP. HE THINKS WE WILL NOT FIGHT. I SAY NO!"
"For Blackfen! For Varrik!"
"We won't forget! We won't forgive!"
Seraphina watched the words cut through them. Varrik used grief like a torch. It burned clean tonight.
"AT DAWN THE ENEMY WILL WAKE AND FIND ONLY ASH! ERYNDRAL WILL BE OURS!"
Murmurs turned sharp—grain, warmth, roofs. Hunger wore a face in every firelit jaw.
"Its walls," Lyscia breathed near her shoulder, voice a knife kept close. "Shields and staging. Practical."
"We take them," Seraphina answered. "Then we climb to the castle. No wandering."
"ITS WALLS WILL BE OUR SHIELD! ITS GRANARIES WILL FEED OUR PEOPLE! WHEN WE TAKE DRAEMYR FROM HIS HOLE, KING ALDRIC WILL COUNT THE COST IN CORPSES!"
Spit hit dirt. Laughter cracked low and bitter. Old backs straightened.
"For fire! For empire!"
Varrik's blade caught flame and moon both.
"YOU DO NOT MARCH ALONE! THE DRAGONS OF VEYNDRAL WATCH! THE LEGIONS BEHIND US DO NOT FAIL! FORWARD—TO VICTORY!"
The answer shook the planks under his boots.
Mersha drifted in beside Seraphina, helm tucked, worry drawn tight in the set of her mouth. "We move without a wyrm and without our dragon knight. Wait for the dragon rider to reach us. One hour. Two."
"We go take a small village," Seraphina murmured, eyes on the sea of iron. "Boots and blades. We do not wait to starve."
"Small villages bleed same as cities."
"Maintain the pace of the attack for the fallen soldiers in Blackfen Gorge"
Mersha's fingers pressed the rim of her helm. "Draemyr smells overconfidence. He will be near."
"I know where danger sits." Seraphina's jaw set. "I am not feeding him a feast."
Horns unraveled the night. Packs swung. Straps cinched. The camp uncoiled, a serpent made of 20,000 steps.
"Guard the rear! Scouts—eyes wide!"
"Lines tight. Watch that east wind."
Varrik dropped from the platform and let men touch his sleeve like a charm. He did not smile.
At the treeline, lights pricked between trunks—cold chips of glass, pulsing in loops. Torches guttered. Men swore, made signs.
"Look—those lights—"
"Keep moving," Varrik's voice cut. "Do not watch dead things. Eyes on the road."
Seraphina studied the pattern once, felt the air thin around the pulse, thought of Aurelthorn tricks and fog-priests. "Lyssy. Note that. We test for sigils on the second line."
"On it."
A hooded traveler leaned in shadow beyond the last cart, face buried, watching. Seraphina's gaze slid over him, then past, back to the river of steel.
"Burn them. Take them. No mercy."
"Quiet that chant," Seraphina snapped as she walked. "Mercy costs nothing to hold until you spend it."
Drums found the step. Banners snapped hard and went black again. Mersha fell in on the left, worry refusing to leave her eyes.
"My Sera," she breathed, low enough for no one else. "if the dragon rider does not come—"
"We move without them; we get it done before morning."
---
[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
10:10 p.m. - At Eryndral Village, Eryndral Forest. (10 September 2025)
Rain ticks off the broken eaves. Smoke crawls up and vanishes into low cloud. I taste ash on my tongue and feel heat on my cheeks, but my nose gives me nothing. My head runs empty and loud at once. Where am I. This can't be real. Dream logic, bad UI.
"Hello, my name is Jonas. Thank you for helping me. My son Aelric and my wife Selene, my Dawnstar family, owe you a debt."
Jonas wipes soot on his trousers, hands raw, eyes rimmed red. He steps close like he doesn't want the others to hear.
"Ryan, you risked yourself for me back there. I won't forget it."
I scratch the back of my neck. The jacket sleeve squeaks where it's wet. "I just... couldn't stand there and watch. Didn't feel right."
He looks over what's left of the square—charred ribs of roofs, puddles full of straw. His voice drops into the wreck.
"This is Eryndral Village. We've been trapped for years between Aurelthorn and the shadow of Drakensvale. War never leaves us in peace."
My pulse thuds in my ears. Maybe a dream. I keep my hands near my backpack like it's an anchor.
He pats a bundle at his belt, tied with twine. "I gather roots and leaves from the forest, mix them into medicines. Without them, half this village would not have survived fevers, broken bones, or raids. That is my craft, and my duty."
I fish the side pocket open and show him the green I took earlier, stems wrapped in cloth. "I found some plants when I was out. I don't know much, but maybe you'll recognise them?"
A small light comes into his face. "A traveler who gathers herbs? That is rare. Tell me what you found."
I list them, stumbling over names I half-heard from the kids and the old man with the shield. He stops me with a palm when I twist two, then teaches me gently, like he's mending a net.
He counts, nods, checks each leaf with his thumb. Then he runs it like a ledger, neat and sure.
"Healing Balm x 3: promotes healing of minor wounds.
Sootheleaf x 5: reduces inflammation and soothes pain.
Nightshade x 2: a potent poison when misused, but effective against fevers if prepared correctly.
Firethorn x 4: used to create tinctures that ward off colds when brewed correctly.
Moonflower x 6: known for calming effects; often used for anxiety.
Ironroot x 2: boosts physical strength; beneficial for those recovering from exertion.
Mystic Fern x 1: enhances clarity of thought; reputed to improve focus during spells.
Bramblethorn x 3: provides defense against minor spells; used as a protective charm.
Lunar Peppermint x 2: good for digestion and calming stomach aches.
Bloodberry x 4: increases stamina and vitality; great for athletes and laborers.
Frostbloom x 1: enveloped in cold magic; can be used to treat burns but must be handled with care.
Starlight Herb x 3: used in potions for sleep, granting peaceful, restorative rest."
He squeezes my shoulder once. "You have a good eye. These will help heal the wounded tonight. Even if you didn't know their worth, you still brought them."
"Guess I was just lucky." Don't correct him. He thinks I'm a merchant. This place doesn't need my weird.
He leans in a little, voice curious, not sharp. "Where do you come from, Ryan? Your speech is... different. And your clothing—unlike any I've seen."
Panic flicks my ribs. The village is wet straw and weak lamps. I tug the jacket like I can fold the colours in. "Far from here. Westward, mostly. I travel with caravans, trading what little I can. The road was long, and... not kind. Bandits took most of what I carried."
He weighs that, then gives it space. "A merchant, then. The west breeds many hardships, and those who survive the roads are seldom ordinary men."
In my head, I laugh. Rainbow jacket, orange shirt, running shoes. Outfit glitch. If this is a dream, it's trolling me hard.
"Useful. I can only hope."
He watches two men prop a door on rocks to make a stretcher. "Then perhaps that is why the others looked to you earlier. You stand out. And in times like these, standing out can make a man seem stronger than he is."
It's as if I'm the player and the person in front of me is an NPC, and I have to lead an army to fight.
(What the fuck in this dream?)
The line lands where I keep the soft parts. I swallow. Sometimes fate doesn't pick the strongest. It picks whoever won't walk away. Great. Now I sound like a paperback hero. I know better. Reading is not swinging a blade.
I never fought a war. I read them. Sieges in clean diagrams, formations like clockwork. Romance of the Three Kingdoms lived in my head. Now real smoke crawls under a low ceiling, and people want more than theory.
"Books give you ideas," I murmur. "They don't give you courage. They don't stop arrows."
He hears only the tone, not the words. Hands like tools, nails black with soil and ash. No armor gleam. He's not asking me to be a general. He wants a neighbour who won't bail.
"I may not have magic, or a sword arm worth much, but where I'm from... we solved problems differently."
I imagine 21st-century weapons in this medieval world and hope they appear before me in my dreams.
A snort, almost a laugh. "Not everyone here can cast spells. But some are gifted by the spirits of earth, water, fire, and wind. It is not trickery—it is the breath of the land itself." Jonas said.
If this is a game, there's no HUD. No stats. No tutorial fairy. Just mud.
A child runs by with a bundle, bare feet slapping. Shapes move in the gloom—shadows with names I don't know. Useless and restless at once. Fingers itch for a keyboard. I have rope and wet cloth.
"Okay. Think," I mutter when Jonas looks away. "Use the tech."
Words slide out of me, half to myself. "We need a place to hide the injured, get firewood, and set a watch. Rotate shifts. Use the herbs for triage—start with Firethorn and Sootheleaf for the cold and inflammation. Starlight Herb for sleep if they can't rest."
I picked up my phone and laptop and tried to do something.
His head turns. "What was that, Ryan?"
I rub my glasses on the jacket hem. Useless. Still streaked. "Nothing, Just... A device that will save us, I hope so."
Maybe the laptop is the only thing I brought that can pay rent. It might be helpful at this time.
"Then we start small. Stabilize the wounded, barricade what we can, and keep watch. I can help with plans and making teams."
"It will do. We need minds as well as swords."
Zhuge Liang had his fans. I have a laptop and a cracked shield with an antler on it. Use what you have. Keep folks breathing.
"Then let's do it."
He gathers the bundle and lifts his chin toward the far end of the square. A long hall crouches there, windows patched with oiled paper, lamplight fluttering behind. "Come. The wounded are inside the long hall. We will work by lamplight."
I adjust the pack straps. This is real enough for now. If it's a dream, I keep playing mess. If it's not, I would probably wake up.
---
[POV Scout Third-Person]
10:10 p.m. - At Outskirts, Eryndral Village, Aurelthorn (10 September 2025)
From the tree roots the world opens like a wound. Black and crimson stain the valley floor. Tents make a rough city against the mountain. Banners chew at the cold wind. My breath comes small. My fingers dig bark.
"Do you see that?"
"It's like the old tales... an army."
"How many?"
"More than fields can count. Around 10,000. Fog hides the rest."
---
[POV Ryan First-Person]
10:10 p.m. - At Outskirts, Eryndral Village, Aurelthorn (10 September 2025)
"We found them. Drakensvale. A whole army of them!" the scout said.
Ryan meets my eyes. A flinch flickers, gone. His voice stays steady.
"How many?"
"Around 10,000. Maybe more under the fog. Banners everywhere. Iron shine. I smell ash." My mouth tastes metal.
"Where do they come from?" he said.
"Mountain's foot. I see big lines, I think. Not close. Not yet," the scout said.
"Good. Hear me. Move."
"Move where?"
"Sound the bell. Gather in the square. Bring doors, lids, any wood. Shields if you have them. Lock the granary."
A woman lifts her child higher. "Arm yourselves! Help with the wagons!"
"BELL! RING THE BELL!" A boy sprints.
The bronze answers. BONG. BONG. BONG.
"Children to the long hall," his voice cuts clean. "Two lines to carry water from the well. Fill every pot. Wet blankets. If fire comes, smother, don't throw."
"Aye!"
"Pull carts across the west lane. Stack stones behind them. Spears front. Slings behind. No torches on the wall. Let your eyes learn the dark."
"My hands shake," I whisper.
One villager: "Hands can shake and still hold a spear."
"Where do you want us?"
"Back to the wall," he points with that bright jacket, strange in our night. "Count riders. Listen for drums. Watch the fog. If they split, I want to know. If they light torches, I want to know. If you see red armor with a black dragon, you tell me which road it takes."
He sends encouragement in a casual way. "We can do that."
"Jonas!" He lifts his chin toward the herb-man. "Sootheleaf, Firethorn, ready bowls by the long hall. Anyone cut or burned goes there. Strong backs, help Jonas."
"On it."
"BARRICADES TO THE NORTH-EAST LANE!" a farmer roars.
I swallow, chest tight.
"Holy fuck. That's too many. More than a scout report."