Heavy steps, clouded thoughts and aching bones. The frosted shrubbery seemed to compound Peyton's misery as he looked across at the remnants of his ragtag crew pushing the spoils of the foraging sites back to Bleufontaine.

So many lost, so few remained. Several graves were dug for men whom he had considered his own, people that he had fought and bled alongside. Guilt had continuously barraged him as he pushed a corpse into the ground, their name was briefly spoken before the wet, soaked mud was splattered over them to become one with the earth.

He and a handful of men had barely survived the skirmish with the Ruvians but in reality, Peyton, and all of his men, had not been expected to survive the encounter. Instead, their rotting corpses were expecting to be looted of their weapons, their armour, their pride and their flesh while the rest of the army were bunkered down for the winter.

Peyton had always been exceptional at restraining his emotion, yet the silence that had accompanied him and his men since the skirmish had allowed him to effortlessly plunge himself deep into his thoughts.

He was angry and bitter at the man that was so eager to see his demise, and when Peyton would set foot into Bleufontaine once more, he was eager to put this considered feud to bed once and for all, even if it would cost him his life.

Perhaps he was foolish for thinking he could end Sir Cedwyn's resentment toward him, but what did he have to lose? As most of his men lay lifeless in the Ruvian mud, it felt like nothing, but as he delved more into his thoughts, he realised it was so much more than that.

The thoughts made him more bitter, angrier. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He had some wealth, much more than the average knight-errant, and he still had some men, but his pride and his honour were something he had in abundance, and to lose that would make him lose every fibre of his being.

He could not allow Sir Cedwyn to take it away from him.

"Milord, up ahead!"

The alarmed sound from his men brought Peyton out of his thoughts. He had been so deeply engrossed in his frustration that he had failed to see the smoke rising above the trees and across the horizon.

As he studied its origin, Peyton became even more anxious than before. The smoke was rising from Bleufontaine, and it appeared that several fires had now culminated into one huge smoke cloud.

"Harrold, hold fast, secure the caravan, I must investigate what has happened," Peyton ordered.

Harrold immediately took to Peyton's side, his grisly features not taking too kindly to the orders bestowed upon him. "Milord, shouldn't I go with a couple of the lads? What if the Ruvians attacked?"

"Then they would be foolish," Peyton replied with frustration oozing from his lips. "This is not a Ruvian attack, it would be futile for them to siege Bleufontaine in the middle of winter. Forsyth, Kippa, with me, the rest of you remain and guard the caravan."

Before Peyton looked to pick up the pace toward the turmoil, Harrold grabbed a hold of his arm. Initially, Peyton responded aggressively, but as he turned to see the concern on his man's face, he responded by simply tapping his hand. "I will be fine, Harrold."

With a quick nod, Harrold acknowledged his commander before releasing his arm. His continuous frown was not uncommon, but Peyton could see that it was far more prominent than usual. Yet it was of little consequence, Peyton would travel to Bleufontaine with or without Harrold's approval.

The closer they edged toward Bleufontaine, the clanging of metal, the shouts and screams of the wounded or dying had crescendoed intensely. The worst of the fires had appeared to settle as Peyton stood on top of the hill leading toward the bastion of the east, but plumes of smoke still edged towards the sky.

Jogging up to Bleufontaine's walls, they seemed to reach for the sky causing Peyton to fail to see what bedlam that had been caused within the wall. He felt anxiety grip his heart as he moved forward, the blood-red walls proving a literal partition between him and the chaos within.

"HALT!"

Peyton felt like he was jumping out of his skin as he looked up the wall to see several archers pointing their recurve bows at the three helpless men closing toward the gates of the chaos-driven castle.

"THERE IS TO BE NO ENTRY TO THE CASTLE"

Looking up the wall, he could not establish who had shouted the order, but as many fearsome arrows pointed themselves at the powerless men at the gates, it felt inappropriate to try an initial attempt to decipher the mystery.

"I NEED IMMEDIATE ENTRY" Peyton shouted, hoping to spark a positive response from the archers.

"HOLD OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!"

Peyton and his men immediately froze. The threat felt genuine, the call oozed urgency, they were simply moments away from being pinned by several sharp-tipped arrows.

He needed to get in to find out what had transpired, with the sound of battle continuing toward the keep Peyton was becoming increasingly agitated.

What bothered him most was how the castle walls remained intact and the gates closed. Whatever was happening was not because of Ruvia, but instead, it seemed chaos was rampant as a result of Isovine actions.

Could news of Ravenscourt finally have reached Bleufontaine?

"SIR WHITEHILL, YOU'VE RETURNED." a cry from the battlements bellowed.

Looking up, Peyton recognised a friendly face. The roundish red-faced features of Sir Gilfred, a man twice his age, but a knight-errant just like the frustrated Peyton.

"STAND DOWN, OPEN THE GATES" Sir Gilfred ordered.

Tension released as Peyton could sense arrows returning to their quivers and as the sound of the huge timber bars could be heard sliding from behind the gates, the door opened allowing Peyton to be one step closer to finding his answers.

Stepping into the muddy grounds, the chaos had not reached the walls, but in the distance, he observed men running around attempting to quell one of the many fires that littered the tent rows.

"Sir Peyton, you have been gone for some time." Sir Gilfred responded as his steps clanked down the stony staircase.

Peyton immediately saluted him which Gilfred immediately responded in kind, "I saw smoke originating from here and came as quickly as I could. My men are a couple of hours walk away with supplies we have found on our journey, but I needed to ensure it was safe for their return."

Gilfred seemed a little out of breath from his trek up and down the stairs, his bushy moustache hid his lips, but it didn't hide his concern about today's events. "It appears that we are seeing an end to today's unfortunate events," his deep gruff voice responded, "it has been an extremely trying day, the supplies couldn't come at a more welcome time. It should be safe to have them return."

Peyton instructed his men to return to Harrold and the caravan and as the gate's closed behind them, the soldiers returned to their duties. With only Sir Gilfred remaining with Peyton. Questions needed to be answered.

"Sir Gilfred, what has transpired today?"

Gilfred looked around, ensuring that the men under his charge were not too close to hear the finer details of aggression caused within the castle walls.

"News arrived this morning from Ravenscourt," Sir Gilfred responded, causing Peyton to inhale sharply, "Emperor Arnaud sent an army to lay siege on the city."

"Why would he do that," Peyton responded, feigning ignorance.

"It's confusing, to say the least, but from what I have heard, Lord Millendahl Darke has been arrested by Lord Ethelston Darke. No one knew he was alive, but he returned to take his place as the Grand Duke and it was a move despised by the Emperor."

Peyton was interested to know why Gilfred was not aware of all of the finer details, ultimately, the news that an Aex-Igh lived and was supported by Ethelston.

"The Emperor sent the Crimson Knight to retake Ravenscourt," Gilfred continued, "but apparently they were unsuccessful and Ethelston remains in charge of the city. Sir Emhyr is furious, his father, Knight Inquisitor Renfry, was the one who sent word of the betrayal by the Emperor. Sir Emhyr plans to forsake the war and send everyone home."

Peyton knew the logistics of that would be near impossible. Sending a renegade army across the breadth of Isovine unopposed, he could not see it happening.

Sir Gilfred hadn't finished, "But before we leave, Sir Emhyr had instructed the men to cleanse Bleufontaine of anyone not from Ravenscourt and its loyal houses. Sir Cedwyn has lost most of his troops, slaughtered on the streets like pigs, only a few remain in the keep, there to protect the Count. It's been chaos all day, you are fortunate to arrive after most of the fighting had subsided."

Peyton at that very moment felt conflicted. He despised Sir Cedwyn and the way he had treated Peyton at every opportunity. He recalled the men, that only days before, he had to push into a makeshift grave. Their deaths were ultimately caused by the man who was now holed up in the keep. Yet Sir Cedwyn was still a knight, a man of noble blood who didn't deserve to be caught and paraded around Bleufontaine like oxen ready to be slaughtered.

Earl Emhyr Renfry was a bloodthirsty man, someone who took great pleasure in the suffering of others. Should Sir Emhyr and his troops capture Sir Cedwyn, his death would be brutal and prolonged over several days and worst still, was that Emhyr would take great pleasure in doing it.

"I thank you for the update, Sir Gilfred," Peyton nodded, "Now I must take my leave, it appears I will need to see what this chaos has done to my belongings," he lied, eager to defer the attention away from himself.

"Indeed, I am fortunate that my place is far away from Sir Cedwyn's people. Go in strength."

"You too," Peyton acknowledged, while already making his steps toward the keep.

As he trudged through the mud, watching as the initial signs of battle were nonexistent, he then saw the first two corpses on the ground. One, a man already stripped of his clothing, his head face down deep in the mud, the other, his skull caved in by brutal frantic force, this was only the beginning of what would be a sickening trip to find Sir Cedwyn.

The carnage was disgraceful. Men who had eaten, drank and laughed together had returned to their basest desires, using the turmoil at Ravenscourt as an excuse to sate a bloodlust that had been brewing in them since the army settled for the winter.

Sir Emhyr was an exceptional commander, and his proficiency to motivate his men to become a brutal fighting force was something he excelled at, whereas Sir Cedwyn struggled to gain the respect of his peers, let alone his men. The difference in ability, authority and numbers were vastly outmatched, Sir Cedwyn's men simply had no chance of survival.

While Emhyr would have been undoubtedly angry about events that would have transpired back home, this whole exercise was just to allow Emhyr to enjoy the pain and suffering of another human being.

Peyton entered the keep, bodies strewn everywhere, the floors now redder than the walls that haunted him as he first entered. He could hear the sound of shouting and anger, but it appeared that there was now a lull in the battle. The corridors of Bleufontaine would make battle difficult, so Peyton just hoped that the stalemate was enough to assist Sir Cedwyn's escape from the brutality.

Helping Cedwyn escape, had Peyton lost his mind?

Drawn toward the shouting and metal clangs, it didn't take Peyton long to locate the men engaged in a standoff close to where Sir Cedwyn's room used to be located.

Outnumbered five to one, with enough force, the men of Sir Cedwyn would capitulate through the sheer power the Ravenscourt forces could muster, but the cost would be severe and likely the reason why Sir Emhyr ordered them to hold their ground.

Cedwyn's forces looked tired, their faces were gaunt and bloodied. Their will to survive was evident as they stood, weapons held high, reacting to every twitch the Ravenscourt forces made, but at the same time, they looked as if they were resigned to their fate. It would simply be a matter of time before Emhyr grew impatient and ordered the final assault.

"Sir Peyton, you return to us," a deep malevolent voice echoed from down the corridor.

Peyton turned to watch the long forceful strides of Emhyr and his retinue bound up next to him. Dressed in full battle gear, Emhyr looked intimidating, and even his retinue looked pale next to the man whose face was speckled red and appeared frustrated by the day's events.

"My lord," Peyton responded, swallowing as if he had just eaten a large stone.

"I did not expect you to return so soon, report?" Emhyr asked.

Peyton could sense a little malice in his voice, but he could not tell if it was directed at Peyton's ability to survive or because of the men standing between him and his prey. "The foraging sites are secured, however, I lost a great many of my men."

"And supplies?" Emhyr asked, almost ignoring the comment about Peyton's lost forces.

Peyton felt anger stir inside him by the lack of empathy, recalling the bodies he had pushed into the makeshift grave. "On their way to the castle," Peyton replied, his voice tinged with bitterness.

Emhyr sensed it, and his bloodshot eyes glared back at the young knight. The reprimand for his whiff of insubordination never came, instead, Emhyr had quickly switched toward today's events.

"Civil war has gripped our Empire, the Emperor has openly engaged in warfare against Ravenscourt, and it is our duty to rid ourselves of the stench of his lackeys," Emhyr explained.

There was silence briefly before Emhyr's brutal eyes switched their focus back onto Peyton, "and yet, somehow, you know?"

Emhyr's discernment had caused his anger and bloodlust to switch their attention onto Peyton and now every word and action that the young hedge-knight would perform would be heavily scrutinised. "My lord, I apologise," Peyton responded, his eyes remaining on the feet of the Earl, "word arrived before my excursion to the foraging sites," he lied.

"And you deemed it unnecessary to inform me?" Emhyr huffed, his grip appearing tighter on the hilt of the bastard sword strapped to his hip.

Peyton could feel the tension in the corridor, the feet of the Earl's retinue had shuffled back and the piercing stare of Emhyr was burning through him. Peyton knew that Emhyr wouldn't have any qualms about ending his life right there, especially while the satisfaction of the pain and suffering of men that, he now considered the enemy, was rampant.

Peyton had to think quickly. He needed to find a way to ease the anger toward him while having the opportunity to reach Sir Cedwyn and stage a daring rescue.

"My apologies, my Lord," Peyton lowered his head further, "perhaps I could look to ending this skirmish as a way to prove my loyalty."

"Why should I need your loyalty, when I have your fear?"

A bead of sweat slipped from Peyton's forehead, his hands felt clammy and his breathing somewhat erratic. He had been in Emhyr's good graces for so long that he had forgotten what type of man, the son of Knight Inquisitor Ithelred, was truly.

"What do you propose?" Emhyr eventually commented.

"I am certain that Cedwyn and his men no longer crave for battle, perhaps if I parlay with them, talk with Cedwyn, I could convince him to lay down his arms and surrender," Peyton suggested.

"I do not want his surrender!" Emhyr angrily reacted back. "I have spent months listening to his incompetence and foolishness. I despise the way he looked down upon me as if being the Count of an irrelevant province like Oakfort means something. Nothing will satisfy me more than to hear his screams as I slowly tear the flesh from his arrogant and worthless body."

Peyton could not believe that a man he had admired as a strategist was everything he despised as a human being. How could someone take pleasure from harming another so vividly?

"So be it," Emhyr responded, the clank of his armour echoed through the corridor as his arms crossed in frustration. "Bring me an end to this skirmish, and bring me Sir Cedwyn."

The rustle of Peyton's chest as he saluted did not deter it from feeling nauseous.

To prepare himself to engage in parlay with Sir Cedwyn, Peyton slid his sword from its scabbard but it made him feel exceptionally uneasy and partially naked. Removing his dagger from his side, completing his vulnerability, and as he moved forward towards the two banks of opposing forces, he realised that his honour and desire to save another knight had caused him to step forward into an extremely dangerous scenario.

His goal was to rescue Sir Cedwyn from the clutches of Sir Emhyr's brutal talons, a goal, that if he succeeded would undoubtedly place Peyton's life in great jeopardy. However, as he stepped forward to the opposing soldiers, Sir Cedwyn's final line of defence, there was no guarantee that he would have the opportunity to even speak with him.

Peyton forced his breathing to steady, raising his arms toward the soldiers preparing to slide their weapons deep into his torso, "I request parlay, and to speak with the Count of Oakfort," his voice assured and his stance assertive.

The soldiers seemed confused as the knight of Ravenscourt approached them unarmed demanding to speak with their leige lord. As his steps edged closer, they did not see a young hedge knight, fearful and nauseous after his discussion with Sir Emhyr, but instead, they saw a vocal piece for the Earl of Caernleigh, and as a result, their weapons lowered.

Despite his assured stance, Peyton was mumbling to the gods, preparing himself to meet them shortly. His eyes flickered between the soldiers to see which of them would strike first, but as the order came for them to separate, he walked between them, passing between the angry eyes and snarling faces.

Each step forward, between the soldiers and passing their final line of defence, was calculated. Slow enough not to cause alarm but quick enough to create distance between him and the two opposing forces.

Escorted to the final room, Peyton took a deep breath as he was violently pushed into it. It was almost completely dark, the windows had been covered and the smell was somewhat musty. As his escort left, clanking the doors together, Peyton felt alone, naked, in a room enveloped in darkness.

The thought of cold steel against his neck, ready to slice deep, was something he welcomed, but instead, there was nothing. He was left with uneasiness in him as the room and all within it appeared lifeless and empty. His anxiousness was causing him to feel flustered and a part of him wanted to scream out for the vulnerability to end.

As he lowered his arms, he could hear the shallow breathing of someone else in the room. Sat in the corner, alone and desperate, the breathing turned into a sniffle, before a deep collective sigh ended the deafening silence harshly.

"I wondered who would kill me," the voice in the corner of the room sighed. As Peyton looked towards the darkness of where Sir Cedwyn, Count of Oakfort resided, the Count commented, "it is fitting that the very man who watched my father die would be here to watch me follow in his demise."