Rogan, trudge wearily through the darkness, his body aching from the long journey. Just yesterday night, he had been secretly freed from the dungeon by his trusted friend, Sir Barrys, who had just been knighted. The irony was not lost on Rogan the Master of Coin, penniless and on the run. As the horse walked, the weight of the situation bored harder on Rogan. No Coin, no provisions, and no clear destinations.

  The North was his goal, but the journey was long and treacherous, having to rely on his wits and kindness to strangers to survive. Just as he thought he couldn’t bear it anymore, a clearing came into view, inviting him to rest awhile. But hunger pangs gnawed at his belly, refusing to let him settle.

  His gaze wandered to the nearby river, its crystal water sparkling in the sunlight. A fisherman’s instinct took hold, and he decided to try his luck. With a practiced cast, Fortune smiled upon Rogan, and he soon found himself hauling in not one, but two plump fish.

  Elated, he gathered firewood and kindling, intent on roasting his catch. As the fire crackled to life, the savory aroma of roasting fish filled the air, teasing his taste buds. Rogan’s stomach growled in anticipation.

  Just then, a rustling sound came from beside his horse. His heart skipped a beat as he grabbed a nearby stone, prepared to defend himself if need be. “Who is there?” He called out, his eyes scanning the surrounding foliage, his gaze settling on a branch that seemed to be moving in its own accord.

  But as the leaves parted, a small lizard emerged, its scaly body basking in the warm sunlight. Rogan’s tension dissipated, replaced by a chuckle at his own foolishness. “Well, little one,” he said with a grin, “I reckon you’re not the highwayman I thought you were.”

  With his hunger sated and his energy renewed, Rogan continued on his journey, the sun dipping lower in the sky as he vanished into the horizon, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

  As the windy night wore on, the air grew crisper and colder, prompting Rogan to wrap his cloak tightly around him. The meager warmth it offered was a small comfort against the biting wind. His mind raced with thoughts of the past and the uncertain future, the howling gusts of the northern wind only adding to his unease. Just as he thought he couldn’t bear the solitude any longer, the sound of voices carried through the darkness. A group of travelers, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames of a torch, approached him. They sang with reckless abandon, their voices carrying on the wind. As they drew nearer, Rogan saw the warmth in their eyes and the invitation in their smiles.

  “Hey there, young man,” one of them called out, their voice carrying above the wind. “What are you doing out here all alone? Come join us at the stay house. The wind is no friend to anyone, especially not on a night like this.” He said as he looked at his group of friends and smiled.

  Rogan hesitated for a moment, then gratefully accepted their offer. He led his horse alongside the group, their collective footsteps and the creaking of the torch’s wooden handle the only sounds breaking the night’s silence.

  As they walked, the singing resumed, their voices blending in harmony against the wind’s mournful howls.

  IN THE STAY HOUSE

  Rogan’s eyes widened in surprise as he followed the group of singers into the stay house, grateful for the warmth that enveloped him like a gentle embrace. The contrast to the bitter cold and wind outside was almost palpable, and he felt his tense muscles relax in response.

  “Thanks for bringing me here,” Rogan said, his voice sincere as he turned to the lead singer, Genji.

  Genji smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The name’s Genji,” he said, extending a hand. “And you are?”

  “Rogan,” he replied, his handshake firm.

  Genji’s eyes lit up with interest. “Rogan, that’s a name for a bright young man,” he said, his tone warm.

  Rogan raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “You think so?”

  Genji chuckled and turned to the attendant. “Two cups of ale, please.” As they waited for their drinks, Genji asked Rogan, “What brings you to the North, traveling alone in the dark?”

  Rogan’s gaze narrowed, his grip on his cup tightening. He wasn’t eager to share his story, and Genji seemed to sense his reluctance.

  “I respect your decision not to talk, young man,” Genji said, his eyes understanding.

  Rogan nodded, his voice gruff. “Thanks for the ale.” With that, he retreated to one of the rooms, seeking the comfort of a warm bed and a good night’s sleep.

  IN THE CAPITAL

  Sir Barrys, still basking in the glory of his recent knighting, rode alongside the Knight King, his heart swelling with pride and nostalgia. The three-day journey from Westwood had finally come to an end, and the capital of Herald lay before them, its beauty and vibrancy a sight to behold.

  As they entered the city, Sir Barrys’ mind wandered back to his childhood, when he had last visited the capital with Chirurgeon Breaus. The memories came flooding back, and he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of his younger self, wide-eyed and wonder-struck by the city’s grandeur.

  The air was crisp and clean, filled with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares and the clanging of hammer on anvil from the blacksmiths’ shops. Sir Barrys felt a sense of excitement and wonder, his senses heightened as he took in the sights and sounds of the bustling city.

  As they made their way through the crowded streets, the Knight King turned to him with a knowing glance. “Welcome to the capital, Sir Barrys,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “May your stay be filled with joy and triumph.”

  Sir Barrys nodded, his heart full of gratitude. He knew that this was just the beginning of a new chapter in his life, one that would be filled with adventure, danger, and glory. And he was ready to face it all, armed with his sword, his courage, and the memories of his past.

  Sir Barrys followed the castle attendant, his footsteps echoing through the grand halls of the capital’s castle. His mind, however, was elsewhere, still grappling with the weight of recent events. The grief of losing Chirurgeon Breaus, his mentor and friend, still lingered, a heavy sorrow that refused to lift.

  As he entered his chambers, the attendant bowed and departed, leaving Sir Barrys alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t shake the memory of Old Man Richards’ lifeless body, slain by his own hand on the very day of his knighting. The Knight King’s order still haunted him, the justification of “protecting the realm” offering little solace.

  Sir Barrys’ thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horns and the murmur of voices from the great hall below. He knew the Knight King was convening a council with the Knights of the High Table, a gathering of powerful nobles who represented their banners and wielded significant influence. He wondered what decisions would be made, what fate would be decided for the realm, and whether he would be called upon to carry out another difficult task.

  With a heavy heart, Sir Barrys made his way to the great hall, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He took his place among the other knights, his eyes cast downward, his thoughts still consumed by the ghosts of his past. The Knight King’s voice boomed through the hall, calling the council to order, and Sir Barrys knew that he must put aside his grief and attend to the matters at hand, no matter how difficult they may be.

  The Council of the Knights of the High Table convened with a sense of urgency, the air thick with tension. As the Knight King entered, the room fell silent, the knights rising to their feet in respect. With a nod, the Knight King took his seat, and the councilors followed suit.

  The Knight King’s voice was grave as he addressed the assembly. “Reagan’s men march towards the North Coast, spreading lies and sedition. They claim the gods themselves will soon descend upon us, a thinly veiled attempt to usurp my throne.”

  Sir Dwayne spoke up, his words measured. “Your Grace, the winds of the North are treacherous. Reagan’s army poses no immediate threat.”

  The Knight King’s expression turned stern. “I will not be caught off guard. We must stop them before they spread their dissent further. I will not lose the North to Reagan’s treachery.”

  Sir Anfield Potts nodded in agreement. “Indeed, Your Grace. Reagan’s ambitions must be checked.”

  The councilors murmured in assent, their faces set with determination. Sir Barrys, still reeling from the events of the past few days, spoke up, his voice firm. “If battle is to be had, my lord, I pledge to lead the charge with valor and honor. We will not falter.”

  The Knight King’s eyes narrowed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Well spoken, Sir Barrys. Your bravery is noted.”

  As the council dispersed, the knights filed out of the chamber, their conversations hushed and urgent. Sir Barrys’ declaration had left an impression, and the councilors cast sidelong glances his way, their faces a mix of approval and curiosity. The young knight’s mettle had been tested, and he had emerged unbroken. The winds of war were gathering, and Sir Barrys stood ready to face them head-on.

  IN HIS CHAMBERS

  Sir Barrys opened the door to his chambers, surprised to find his friend Gareth standing before him, a look of concern etched on his face. Gareth, who had requested to be Sir Barrys’ squire when he became a knight.

  “Gareth, what brings you here?” Sir Barrys asked, ushering him in.

  Gareth’s eyes locked onto Sir Barrys’, his voice low and serious. “I need to know, Barrys, why you ended Old Man Richards’ life. He was like a father to me, just as Chirurgeon Breaus was to you.”

  Sir Barrys’ expression turned somber, regret washing over him. “I had no choice, Gareth. The Knight King ordered it. I couldn’t disobey.”

  The room fell silent, the weight of their words hanging heavy in the air. Sir Barrys’ gaze dropped, unable to meet Gareth’s eyes.

  But Gareth’s tone softened, his voice filled with empathy. “I know, Barrys. I know you didn’t have a choice. But we need to stick together in these dark times. We need each other’s support.”

  Sir Barrys nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat. Gareth’s words struck a chord, reminding him of the bond they shared, forged in their youth.

  Gareth’s visit was brief, but his words lingered long after he departed, leaving Sir Barrys to grapple with the weight of his actions and the loyalty of their friendship. The silence in the room seemed to whisper a truth: in a world filled with darkness, the bonds of friendship and loyalty were the only beacons of light that could guide them through.

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  IN THE WINDS OF THE NORTH

  Rogan stormed out of the stay house, his anger palpable as he scanned the area for his horse. But it was nowhere to be found. He spun back around, his eyes blazing with fury as he confronted Genji.

  “Where is my horse?” he demanded, his voice low and menacing.

  Genji shifted uncomfortably, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Ah, think of it as our little token for finding you a stay house in the winds… plus, we paid for everyone’s night stay with the amount I got.”

  Rogan’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing with calculation. A horse was worth at least 500 silvers.

  “How much did you sell it for?” Rogan spat, his voice laced with venom.

  Genji’s grin faltered, his eyes dropping in shame. “100 silvers.”

  Rogan’s anger boiled over, and he turned to pack his belongings, ready to leave the stay house and Genji’s deceit behind. But Gengi’s words stopped him.

  “Wait, Rogan! I’ll sort you out, I promise. I’ll get you to Windsdale.”

  Rogan’s gaze snapped back to Genji, skepticism etched on his face. “How? I lost my horse, thanks to you.”

  Genji’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting with confidence. “Leave it to me.”

  Rogan and Genji journeyed on foot for a few miles until Genji discovered a hidden path leading to a heavily guarded caravan. The caravan was bound for Windsdale, and Genji negotiated with the conductors, producing a pass that was carefully scrutinized. After a brief exchange and a bribe of a few silver coins, the conductor nodded in approval.

  Genji returned to Rogan, who had been observing the scene unfold. “You’ll reach Windsdale by nightfall,” Genji instructed. “Keep your emotions in check and avoid speaking to anyone in the caravan.”

  As the caravan prepared to depart, Genji’s group emerged from the forest. One of his companions, a fierce-looking woman, remarked, “You should have invited him to join the Windhood.” Genji smirked, replying, “He wasn’t the one.”

  It seemed that Genji, the master of winds, had assisted Rogan, the master of coin, in his journey to Windsdale. The true nature of their relationship and motivations remained unclear, but it was evident that their paths had crossed for a reason.

  JOURNEY TO WINDSDALE

  Following Genji’s advice, Rogan kept to himself and concealed his emotions as he traveled with the caravan. He eventually arrived in Windsdale, a city notorious for its relentless winds. As he made his way through the village, a boisterous voice echoed from a nearby tavern, drawing Rogan’s attention. He smiled to himself, eager to spend some of his hard-earned coins on a warm meal and a pint of ale. With a spring in his step, Rogan pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside.

  As Rogan entered the tavern, he was surprised to find a spacious interior that belied its modest exterior. A serving girl promptly approached him, inquiring about his preferences. “A pint of ale and some chicken, please,” Rogan replied. The girl hastened off to fulfill his order.

  Rogan’s gaze wandered, and he discovered an unexpected arena within the tavern. The crowd’s cheers and the clang of steel on steel drew him in. A muscular man emerged victorious over a younger opponent, and a booming voice declared, “A free cup of ale for every patron!” The tavern erupted into a frenzy as people rushed to claim their complimentary drinks.

  The air was thick with the smell of ale, and Rogan’s serving girl returned with his order. “Who is the generous lord offering free ale?” Rogan asked, his curiosity piqued. “Lord Norton, the wealthiest man in the North,” she replied, her tone a mix of admiration and wariness.

  Rogan’s interest was palpable as he accepted his ale and chicken. The serving girl presented the bill, “Four silver pieces, m’lord.” Rogan paid the exact amount, and the girl’s expression turned sour, seemingly expecting a tip. “And I’m no lord, m’lady,” Rogan added with a smile. The serving girl departed, her face a picture of annoyance.

  Lord Norton, clearly inebriated, tossed coins into the air, captivating the Loudly arena’s attention. Rogan in the other side of the arena, with his signature smirk, approached the tavern owner and made a surprising offer: “I’ll buy your tavern, right now, for 15,000 gold coins.” The owner’s eyes widened in shock, but Rogan’s confidence was persuasive. “I’ll return shortly, consider my proposal,” Rogan said, before making his way to Lord Norton’s table.

  “Greetings, Lord Norton,” Rogan said, his voice dripping with confidence. Lord Norton, taken aback, asked, “Who are you?” Rogan replied, “They call me Rogan, the Master of Coin.” Lord Norton boasted, “I am the richest man in the entire realm.” Rogan chuckled, “Second richest, perhaps, as I am here.”

  Rogan proposed a wager: “50,000 gold coins if I defeat your champion. If I lose, this tavern that i just purchased becomes yours.” Lord Norton, without consulting his advisors, slurred, “Yes, yes, you have a deal.” Rogan smirked as Lord Norton’s champion stepped forward.

  As they prepared to face each other in the small arena, Rogan whispered to the champion, “50/50 split.” The champion’s eyes lit up at the prospect of winning 25,000 coins. With a spear in hand, Rogan prepared for battle. The crowd roared, eager for the fight to begin.

  Rogan and the champion circled each other, their eyes locked in a fierce stare. The champion, a towering figure with muscles bulging, sneered at Rogan’s lean physique. But Rogan’s smirk hinted at a secret weapon.

  The champion charged, his sword flashing in the torchlight. Rogan dodged and weaved, his spear darting in quick jabs. The champion parried each thrust with ease, his expression unreadable.

  The battle raged on, both warriors exchanging blows. The champion’s strength was formidable, but Rogan’s agility and cunning kept him at bay. Sweat dripped from their brows as they clashed, their breathing heavy.

  In a sudden move, Rogan feigned a stumble, leaving himself open to attack. The champion seized the opportunity, his sword slicing downward. Rogan rolled aside just in time, using the momentum to fuel a powerful thrust. His spear struck true, hitting the champion’s arm with a loud clang.

  The champion stumbled back, his eyes widening in surprise. Rogan pressed his advantage, striking again and again. The champion defended himself, but Rogan’s blows came faster and stronger. Finally, with a decisive thrust, Rogan sent the champion crashing to the ground.

  The tavern erupted into cheers as Rogan stood victorious. Lord Norton’s face turned beet red with rage, but Rogan just smiled, knowing the champion had taken the bribe. The champion rose, brushing himself off, with a hint of a smile. Their secret pact hidden from the crowd.

  Rogan collected his winnings from Lord Norton, the sack of gold coins heavy with the weight of 50,000 pieces. The crowd cheered again, while Lord Norton and his companions looked on in disbelief, their faces pale with shock.

  Rogan crossed the arena, returning to the tavern side, where he approached the owner, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Have you considered my offer?” he asked, pushing a sack of 15,000 gold coins towards the owner.

  The owner’s eyes widened in astonishment, but Rogan simply pulled out a paper from his bag and asked, “Can you read and write properly?” The owner nodded, still in shock, and signed the paper, sealing the deal.

  Rogan had pulled off the scam of the century! He chased out the patrons, with the help of the tavern workers, leaving only the owner, a few serving maids, and himself inside. “Thank you for your cooperation,” Rogan said with a smirk, before turning to the owner, “including you, Mister Windleton.”

  The owner, still reeling from the sudden turn of events, had no choice but to leave. Rogan locked the doors leading to the arena, ensuring his newfound prize was secure. With a final smirk, he celebrated his victory, the Master of Coin having pulled off another impossible heist.

  INSIDE THE TAVERN

  Rogan was trying to find sleep after having chased everyone out of the tavern, but he could still sense someone remaining. Rogan then said, “Come out now, I can see you.”

  Leana then came out from hiding under a table. Rogan pointed to the door, meaning she should leave.

  Leana said, “Wait till Lord Norton hears that you scammed him, striking a deal with the champion.”

  Rogan’s eyes rolled as he said, “How’s he going to know?”

  Leana replied, “He will know if I tell him.”

  Rogan laughed in mockery and said, “But you’re just a serving girl.”

  Leana said, “Really, you think so?”

  Then Leana tried to leave, but Rogan pushed her back. Rogan asked, sighing, “Fine, what do you want?”

  Leana said, “Make me manager of the tavern.”

  Rogan laughed in mockery yet again and said, “Why would I make you the manager of my tavern?”

  Leana said, “Because you have to.”

  Rogan then stared at her and said, “Very well then, come back tomorrow. I’ll make you the manager of my tavern.”

  Leana’s face lit up with a radiant smile, and she curtsied gracefully. “Thank you.”

  Rogan’s eyes widened in mock surprise, “Earlier tonight, you addressed me as ‘m’lord’?”

  Leana’s smile never wavered, “Very well, then, m’lord.”

  As she turned to leave, Rogan called out, “And your name is?”

  Leana’s voice was like music, “Leana, m’lord.”

  Rogan nodded, and Leana departed, leaving him alone with his gold and his thoughts.

  As the night wore on, Rogan heard the tavern’s windows creaking under the force of the howling wind. He didn’t flinch, too caught up in his own joy. The past week had been a wild ride - from being jailed for rigging melee bets to escaping with the help of Sir Barrys, fleeing to the north, and now owning a tavern. It was like a dream come true.

  Just as he was basking in his good fortune, a loud bang on the door broke the spell. Rogan’s heart skipped a beat as he peeked through a small hole to see the champion standing outside, his chest still bare despite the biting wind. Rogan opened the door, and the champion strode in, his eyes fixed on Rogan with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably.

  You’re not feeling the cold, mate?” Rogan asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  The champion’s reply was enigmatic: “I am from the wind, and the wind is from me.”

  Rogan raised an eyebrow. “Some sort of Northern slang or word?”

  The champion’s gaze never wavered. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here for the money.”

  Rogan handed him a sack containing 10,000 gold coins, but the champion’s face darkened as he realized it was short of the agreed 25,000. “You cheat like the wind, eh?” he growled, his fury palpable.

  Rogan held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Easy, big guy! Change of plans, couldn’t give you the full amount. Be grateful for this, eh? Better than the three silver pieces Lord Norton gives you per win after making a handful of you!”

  The champion’s anger simmered, but he took the coins and stuffed them into his trousers. As he turned to leave, Rogan tossed him a cloth to wrap around his bare chest. The champion hesitated, then ripped it off, his eyes flashing defiance.

  Rogan shrugged. “Fine, do what you want.”

  As the champion reached the door, he turned back and said, “You owe the wind 15,000.”

  Rogan smiled and waved him off, relieved when the champion disappeared into the night. He locked the door, settled beside a candle, and let the howling wind lull him into a well-deserved sleep.

  BACK IN THE CAPITAL

  Gareth and Sir Barrys sat in quiet conversation, the night air thick with the weight of their words. They spoke of Chirurgeon Breaus, and the regret etched on Sir Barrys’ face was palpable.

  “If only you had escorted him that day,” Gareth said, his voice laced with remorse.

  Sir Barrys’ reply was barely audible. “Yes.”

  Gareth’s eyes filled with understanding. “You know the tradition. Chirurgeons are buried 14 days after their passing, a nod to their life-saving work, despite the 14 organs we possess. His body cannot be seen now it’s not even up to the 10th day yet.”

  Sir Barrys’ expression turned skeptical. “A nonsense rule, if you ask me.”

  Gareth’s smile was tinged with melancholy. “It’s been our way for centuries, Barrys… or should I say, Sir Barrys?” The latter earned a chuckle from Sir Barrys, and they shared a brief moment of levity.

  As they gazed up at the moon, Sir Barrys’ expression turned contemplative. “The gods must be watching over us.”

  Gareth’s concern was evident. “You wouldn’t want to mention the gods now, would you?”

  Sir Barrys’ smirk was mischievous, his eyes glinting with a hint of playfulness. They both laughed, but the merriment was short-lived.

  Footsteps echoed through the corridor, followed by grunts and the sound of a man fighting an invisible foe. Sir Barrys’ expression turned grave, and he swiftly grasped his sword. He rushed outside to investigate, his eyes scanning the darkness below. A lone figure struggled, punching the air with a fierce determination. Sir Barrys’ confusion turned to concern as he hastened down the stairs to intervene.

  As Sir Barrys descended the stairs, the darkness of the night enveloped him. He approached the figure he had seen from his chamber, and the sound of clashing steel grew louder. “Who’s there?” Sir Barrys demanded.

  The figure turned, revealing a black knightly figure - Sir Edric, the Dark Knight. Sir Barrys’ eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  Sir Edric’s response was cryptic. “Are you new here?”

  Sir Barrys’ expression turned wry. “Of course, I am.”

  Sir Edric’s reply was a low, ominous tone. “That answers your question.”

  Sir Edric continued his training, his sword slicing through the darkness with deadly precision. Sir Barrys watched, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and competitiveness. “You can train a thousand times, but I still beat you in the melee final.”

  Sir Edric’s gaze snapped back, his voice dripping with menace. “Enjoy your victory while it lasts.”

  Sir Barrys smiled, but Sir Edric’s intensity only grew. He charged towards Sir Barrys, dropping his glove - a challenge to single combat. Sir Barrys raised an eyebrow. “You’re mad if you think I’ll fight you in the middle of the night.”

  With a yawn, Sir Barrys turned to leave. “I’ll leave you to your mysterious training. Goodnight.”

  As he re-entered his chambers, Gareth watched from the upper stairs, while Sir Dwayne observed the scene unfold from the shadows. Sir Barrys settled into his bed, his mind whirling with the strange encounter. The night air was thick with tension, and he knew this was far from over.

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Rogan was awoken by a knock at the door. Two guards stood outside, their expressions serious. “The Lord of Windsdale wants to see you,” they said. Rogan’s heart raced as he followed them to the lord’s chambers.

  Lord Phillips greeted him, his eyes narrowing. “And you are?”

  Rogan bowed, trying to hide his fear. “Rogan, my lord.”

  Lord Phillips smiled, his expression softening. “I am Lord Phillips of Windsdale. And please, stop acting scared. I won’t bite… you.”

  Rogan forced a confident smile, trying to hide his trembling. “You want me to pay taxes, my lord?”

  Lord Phillips nodded. “One hundred gold coins, to be exact. I hear you’re new to our city and recently purchased the tavern from Mr. Windleton.”

  Rogan nodded, his confidence growing. “That’s correct, my lord.”

  Lord Phillips smiled, impressed. “Very well, then. One hundred gold coins it is.”

  Rogan paid the sum without hesitation, earning a nod of approval from Lord Phillips. Just then, a group of men rushed in, looking frantic. “My lord, we’ve made a deal with the bandits. They’ll leave us alone if we pay a thousand gold coins.”

  Lord Phillips shook his head. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

  Rogan spoke up, his confidence growing. “I might be able to help, my lord. I see the town is struggling financially.”

  Lord Phillips raised an eyebrow. “This is none of your concern, tavern owner.”

  Rogan smiled, his eyes gleaming with confidence. “Actually, my lord, I think I can assist.”

  Lord Phillips snorted. “Go tell that to the Nortons.”

  But Rogan was serious. He pulled out a pouch containing a thousand gold coins and handed it over to Lord Phillips. The lord’s eyes widened in shock. “Wow, young man. The town is grateful for your support.”

  Rogan walked out of the chambers with a swagger, leaving behind a room full of stunned faces. “The Master of Coin finds it a pleasure,” he said with a smile, his confidence and generosity earning him a newfound respect in the eyes of Lord Phillips and the townspeople.

  As Lord Phillip’s men galloped towards the clandestine meeting point, they couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease. Their mission was to give the thousand gold coin to the bandits, but something felt off. The bandits hastily gathered the package and fled, leaving the men with more questions than answers.

  As they turned their horses around to head back, a sense of trepidation settled in. They were just about to deliver news of the encounter to Lord Phillips in Windsdale, but what they witnessed next made their hearts race. In the distance, hundreds of armed men bearing the crest of Reagan marched towards the North, their armor glinting in the sunlight. The men in complete shock saw this and rode as fast as they could to deliver this dire news, the fate of the North hung in balance.