Lyonel POV
Lyonel slumped against the base of an oak, its bark rough against his battered back. Thunder lay nearby, sides heaving, nostrils flaring with each breath. The clearing around them was still, the night air heavy with the lingering smell of smoke from the burned village far behind them.
Lyonel's armour felt like it weighed as much as Blackhaven itself.
He dragged in a breath, slow, shaky, and gritted his teeth as pain flared like fire across his ribs. Each inhale felt like a knife sliding beneath bone. He reached up with trembling fingers and tore at the straps holding his tabard. It took several tries before he managed to pull the cloth over his head, tossing it aside with a hiss of pain.
"Seven help me…"
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the dented steel beneath. The blow from the warhammer had been savage. If not for the armour… he didn't want to think about it.
"Come on," he muttered to himself, fighting the panic rising inside him. He unfastened the buckles on his breastplate, breath hitching every time he had to twist his torso. His fingers slipped once, slick with sweat, and he cursed under his breath.
Finally, the battered piece of steel came loose. Lyonel let it drop beside him, its clatter echoing unnaturally loud in the forest.
Cold night air brushed his undershirt, and for a moment, he simply leaned against the tree and let himself breathe.
Tears blurred his vision before he realized they were coming. Hot, unbidden.
The faces from the village drifted through his mind, men lying where they fell, women screaming, Thunder's frantic charge, the brute with the warhammer… and the guilt he felt for leaving when he had tried so hard not to.
Thunder shifted beside him and let out a soft, low whine.
Then the stallion lifted his head and nudged Lyonel's cheek, licking away the tears.
Lyonel pushed his face aside weakly. "F–fuck, Thunder… stop."
Thunder's ears folded back. The great stallion lowered his head and stepped away, as if confused, wounded.
Lyonel sighed. "I didn't mean it," he whispered, though the horse couldn't understand the words, only the tone.
The Kingswood was quiet again. Too quiet.
Then—
"Boy."
The voice came deep and fast, as if carried on a gust of wind that had no business speaking.
Lyonel froze.
He lifted his head, eyes darting around the shadowed clearing. "Who… who is it?"
No answer.
The air shifted. The temperature seemed to drop, as if a winter wind had slipped between the trees. A faint metallic clanking echoed from the darkness, rhythmic, slow, deliberate. Armour shifting with each step.
Lyonel's heart thudded painfully.
He forced himself up, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest.
"Thunder! Come here!"
Thunder lifted his head sharply, ears twisting toward the sound. He hesitated, as if sensing something Lyonel could not. Then he started trotting toward his rider.
Lyonel had only a heartbeat to feel relief.
A cold metallic hand closed around his throat.
Lyonel's eyes flew wide. His breath vanished, cut off in an instant. The grip was like iron, no, colder. Frigid. Unnatural. His feet left the ground as he was lifted, choking, nails clawing helplessly at the gauntlet gripping him.
His vision darkened at the edges.
The trees began to blur.
The world narrowed to the crushing pain around his neck—
And then the sky cracked open.
A deafening boom shook the clearing as lightning slammed down between them. The flash blinded Lyonel, and the force threw him forward. He hit the ground chest-first, coughing violently as air rushed back into his lungs.
He scrambled away on his elbows and knees, gasping, desperately trying to see what had happened.
When his eyes adjusted, he saw it.
Lying on its back in the center of a scorched patch of earth was a being, taller than any man Lyonel had ever seen, taller even than the monstrous brute he had fought earlier. Its entire body was encased in blackened plate armour, the metal scarred and torn from the lightning's wrath.
The armoured figure didn't move.
Lyonel swallowed hard.
"How… how can someone be that big?" he whispered.
He dared not approach. Every part of him screamed to run, to flee into the forest until his legs gave out. He looked around for Thunder—
But Thunder was nowhere in sight.
The horse must have bolted when the lightning struck. Of course, he had. Smart creature.
"Thunder!" Lyonel called, voice cracking. "Thunder, by the Seven, come back!"
He whistled, over and over. His ribs burned with every breath. His throat throbbed where the metal fingers had crushed down.
He waited.
Branches snapped.
Lyonel's heart leapt. "Thunder?"
But the sound was wrong. Too many footsteps. Too heavy.
Torchlight flickered between the trees. Lyonel's hope drained away as many men stepped into the clearing, weapons drawn, armour marked with soot and the blood of earlier victims.
He recognized some of them instantly.
Bandits.The same men who burned the village.
"Oh, gods," Lyonel whispered. "Fuck me…"
His breastplate was off. His ribs felt broken. And Thunder was gone.
The tall man at the front, broad-shouldered, face hidden behind a helmet, pointed a longsword at him.
"Surrender or die, Dondarrion."
Lyonel met his gaze, or the visor that hid it, and swallowed hard.
He had no armour. No strength. No help.
So he made a choice.
That a Knight never should.
He ran.
Lyonel turned and sprinted into the dark woods, breath ragged, pain flaring with every step, the bandits shouting behind him as the Kingswood swallowed him whole
Alton POV
Alton almost laughed.
The sight of a man from House Dondarrion, one of the old Marcher houses, sworn to battle and bloodshed, turning tail and sprinting into the trees like a frightened hound… it was almost too amusing to believe.
He let out a sharp breath, half a chuckle. "Look at him run," he muttered. "A proud Dondarrion. Hells, I've seen rabbits with more spine."
The men around him snorted and grinned, emboldened by their commander's amusement.
Alton jerked his head toward three of them."Brendan, Ernst, William, after him. Bring him back alive. Alive, you hear me."
The three nodded and took off into the trees, weapons drawn, crashing through underbrush in pursuit. Their shouts faded as the forest swallowed them.
Alton crossed his arms, satisfied. Lyonel Dondarrion running around the Kingswood was a problem, but a problem easily solved. And capturing a knight of that name would fetch a tidy ransom.
He was about to sit on a fallen log when one of his remaining men cleared his throat uneasily.
"Ser Alton… what is that?"
Alton frowned. "What are you—"
But the words died in his mouth.
Ahead of them, lying in a patch of scorched earth, was a figure. A huge one. A monstrous one.
A man, if he was a man, encased in black plate armour from head to toe. The metal was warped and darkened as if struck by something impossibly strong.
Alton's blood ran cold.
"The… Black Devil of the Kingswood," he breathed.
Every tale he'd heard as a boy rushed back into his mind. Travellers vanishing without a trace. Rangers found broken among the roots. A Devi who stood too tall, moved too fast, and killed too quietly to be mortal.
But the figure on the ground was motionless. Still as stone.
Alton swallowed hard, then forced himself to smile.
"If that's him… then I just became a rich man."He turned to his men. "The King put a bounty on his head big enough to buy half a keep."
Behind him, someone whispered, "Ser Alton… we shouldn't."
"We should," Alton snapped. "If this is real, this is our chance. Our fortune."
He pointed at the nearest man, Alaric, a thin, nervous fellow who always smelled faintly of salt."Alaric. Check if it's dead."
Alaric's face went pale. "Should we not just leave it alone, ser? What if—"
Alton stepped toward him, voice dropping to a cold hiss."Do you want to die for disobeying me?"
Alaric swallowed visibly, then nodded. "Y-yes, ser."
The other men stepped back as Alaric approached the motionless armoured giant. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Even the insects quieted, as if waiting.
Alaric reached out a trembling hand.
"Come on," Alton muttered. "Hurry it up—"
Alaric's fingers brushed the armour.
The giant moved.
The Black Devil rose as if pulled up by invisible strings, no groan of metal, no unsteady motion. A smooth, horrifying ascent. One moment on the ground, the next towering above them.
Alaric staggered back, letting out a choking gasp, but a hand, massive and cold, clamped over his head before he could scream.
The pressure was instant and overwhelming. Alaric collapsed without a sound, his head exploding into blood and brain matter.
Alton stumbled backward. "Seven save us…"
The rest of his men froze, terror rooting them in place.
The Black Devil straightened fully, towering a head and shoulders above the tallest man there. Red light pulsed faintly through the eye slits of its helm, like embers breathing.
Alton forced himself to think.Panic would kill them faster than the monster would.
"Men—kill it!" he barked.
No one moved.
"Kill it!" he demanded again. "Half the bounty—half! To every man who helps bring it down!"
That changed everything.
Money made cowards brave.
Steel and anger filled the clearing as Alton's men surged forward. Swords raised, axes lifted, spears angled. A dozen hardened outlaws throwing themselves at one armoured foe.
For a heartbeat, Alton allowed himself to hope.
Then the Black Devil moved.
He moved like a shadow cutting through torchlight. Like a storm breaking loose inside a room too small to hold it. He stepped forward once, and the first man fell. Not cut. Not stabbed. Simply struck aside with a gauntleted arm so forceful it sent him tumbling like a rag doll.
Another lunged; the Devil twisted, grabbed him, and hurled him into a tree so violently the trunk shook.
A third bandit swung an axe at the Devil's neck. The blow rang out like striking a tower bell, the axe head shattered, sending shards into the air. The Devil turned, seized the man's arm, and flung him into the others.
Alton's men shouted, cursed, screamed, but it didn't matter. The Black Devil moved too fast, too strong, too precise. Every strike he made put a man down. Every motion was deliberate. Inhuman.
One by one, his men fell, some scrambling, some trying to flee, all too slow.
Alton stared, horror creeping like ice up his spine.
This thing wasn't human.It couldn't be.No man moved like that. No man stood after getting hit with steel.
Alton took a step backward. Then another.
He looked once more at the massacre unfolding, at the armoured shadow tearing through his men with impossible ease.
Then he turned.
And he ran.
Branches whipped at his face. Roots nearly tripped him. He didn't care. Didn't look back. He sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him, breath ragged, lungs burning, the echo of his men's screams fading behind him.
He didn't stop.He didn't dare.
Alton fled into the darkness of the Kingswood, praying the Black Devil never learned his name.