The night before the ambush, the Order’s encampment lay blanketed in an oppressive stillness, far heavier than the anticipation of battle. Lord Orin sat alone in his dimly lit tent, his pen scratching across parchment as he wrote letters to the families of those who had fallen under his command. The flickering candlelight cast distorted shadows on the canvas walls, mirroring the thoughts that clouded his mind. For each name inscribed, he felt the weight of a life he could not save. He paused, staring at the ink-streaked page as the question that had gnawed at him for weeks whispered once more. Is this what it’s all for?
Stepping outside, Orin sought the cold night air to quiet his mind. The camp was eerily quiet, save for the muted rustle of the wind threading through the trees. The moon hung pale and distant in the sky, its light spilling over the mist that clung to the earth, casting the world in an otherworldly pallor. At the edge of the camp, where the torches failed to reach, shadows twisted unnaturally, their movements tugging at Orin’s fraying nerves.
He let his gaze drift to the horizon, where darkness stretched like a veil over the world. Tomorrow’s battle was supposed to be a decisive strike against the undead horde, another victory in their long campaign. Yet, unease sat heavily on his chest, a formless weight he could not explain. He had always found solace in the clarity of duty, but now, even that felt tenuous.
Behind him, soft footsteps broke the stillness. Sister Aeliana approached, her face pale and drawn in the moonlight. “Orin,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a gravity he rarely heard from her. “There’s unrest among the troops. Whispers of doubt, fear.” She hesitated, her eyes scanning the shadows as if they might betray her words. “And some… question you. They fear what you’ve become.”
Orin turned, his expression composed but distant. “They fear what they do not understand,” he said, his tone steady but tinged with weariness. “We fight for the Light. For the people. That is all that matters.”
Aeliana’s gaze lingered, searching his face for cracks in his resolve. “Even the strongest bonds can fray, Orin. Just… be careful. Not everyone sees you as I do.” With that, she withdrew, leaving him alone at the edge of the camp.
Orin stared after her, her words lingering like the mist. He turned back to the horizon, where the shadows seemed to writhe with unseen intent. For a moment, his mind drifted to Lord Commander Eryndor. The older man had always been an enigma—stern, unyielding, but respected. Yet, there had been moments, fleeting but sharp, when Orin had sensed something more. A remark delivered too sharply, a glance that lingered with an edge of resentment. “You’re too revered, Orin,” Eryndor had once said, his voice flat, his meaning unclear. Orin had brushed it off then, but now, in the quiet of the night, those words carried a weight he could not ignore.
When morning came, the tension that hung over the camp crystallized. The soldiers marched in silence, their usual camaraderie replaced by grim determination. Orin led them, his steps purposeful, though the unease from the night before still gnawed at him. The undead awaited them, relentless and unyielding. He did not expect what truly lay ahead.
The battle erupted with a ferocity that matched the grimness of the day. The air filled with the stench of rotting flesh and the metallic tang of blood, the ground slick beneath their feet. Orin fought at the forefront, his blade a beacon of silver light screaming through the air, the clang of steel on bone echoing across the battlefield. The guttural moans of the undead mixed with the desperate cries of his soldiers, creating a horrifying symphony of death. Around him, his soldiers moved with precision, their training honed to perfection. Yet, even as they pushed forward, Orin felt a hollowness in the rhythm of battle—a sense that the enemy was not the undead alone.
Then it came, swift and brutal. A horn’s blast rang out, its sharp cry slicing through the cacophony of battle. Orin’s instincts surged to life, and he turned just in time to see Ser Elias, his trusted lieutenant, raising his sword. The movement was deliberate, the intent clear.
Before Orin could fully process the betrayal, the battlefield shifted. His soldiers—those he had led into countless battles—turned their blades upon him. The horn’s signal had been a call to treachery, not reinforcements. From the chaos emerged Lord Commander Eryndor, his face as cold and unyielding as the steel in his hand.
“Eryndor,” Orin called out, his voice strained as he parried Elias’s blow. “Why?”
Eryndor’s lips curled into a thin smile, devoid of warmth. “You’ve grown too powerful, Orin. Too beloved. The Light does not belong to one man, and neither does the Order.”
The words struck harder than any blade. Orin fought back with a desperate ferocity, each swing of his sword driven by a mix of disbelief and betrayal. Around him, his former comrades closed in, their faces void of the loyalty he had once trusted.
As the battle raged, the betrayal took its toll. Orin’s strength faltered, the weight of betrayal pressing down upon him. A blade found its mark, slicing deep into his side. He staggered, his vision blurring as he fell to his knees. The cold earth met him, and for a moment, the world seemed to spin away.
Was it all for nothing? The thought lingered as his vision dimmed. The faces of the fallen swirled in his mind—those he had led, those he had lost. The promises he had made felt as fragile as ash.
Silence fell over the battlefield. Orin’s body lay still among the carnage, the blood pooling beneath him a testament to the cost of trust. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, the air around him stirred. Shadows deepened, converging upon his still form, and with them came a sound—a whisper. It rose from the silence, soft and mournful, the voices of the fallen blending into a lamentation that seemed to call him back.
In the stillness, his hand twitched. The whispers grew louder, more insistent. The fallen soldiers, bound to him by loyalty in life, now sought his return. And as the first stars pierced the night sky, Orin stirred. Darkness had consumed him—but it had not claimed him.