Chapter 7 - 1 Part 7: Dukedom of the South, Duke Ashby
In the waning days of autumn, when the mists clung low to the earth and the crows grew fat on carrion, there came word from the South that the Duke of Thorpes will make a move soon.
The messenger paused at the foot of the mighty fortress. The castle soared against the autumnal sky; its walls of finely cut stone gleaming with a deep, rich hue in the waning light. Tall battlements and towering turrets crowned the stronghold, their silhouettes etched sharply against the mottled clouds. The messenger, in a hushed murmur, he whispered to himself, "With a fortress as impenetrable as this, non may conquer it."
At the entrance, a pair of massive iron-bound doors, embellished with wrought-iron designs of dragons and swords. Uniformed in polished plate and chainmail, the knights moved with military precision, their eyes ever alert, their postures rigid, they are indeed a well-disciplined knight that patrolled every corridor.
Summoning his resolve, the messenger paused at the threshold, offered a final respectful glance at the banner-adorned ramparts, and then gently pushed open the massive door.
The torches along the hall flickered low, casting long shadows across the cold flagstones of the Stone Court. The air was thick with the scent of iron and old smoke. At the far end, beneath a canopy of black velvet stitched with silver thread, sat Duke Ashby Rothfeld. Though he was in his mid-twenties, the interplay of light and shadow concealed his features.
A gust of wind swept through, and with it came the crimson flag, unfurled by the trembling hands of a weary messenger. Upon the flag, stitched in black thread, was the sigil emblazoned with a fearsome dragon coiled tightly around a sword.
The messenger entered, cloaked in dust and sweat; his boots caked with the mud of a hundred leagues. He dropped to one knee before the dais, his breath ragged, his hand clutching a scroll sealed in red wax. The messenger said, voice trembling, "My lord Duke, I bring word from Sir Rowan Thelm."
Duke Ashby didn't speak. He merely extended his hand. The scroll was placed in his palm. He broke the seal with a flick of his thumb and read in silence. After a long stillness, his voice, deep and resonant as he uttered, "It's been a month since Darius and his five-hundred elite knights went missing. My Stewart, Rowan was on search once again."
"In the tense pause that followed, conflicting murmurs rippled through the gathered vassals. From the back of the room, one voice, edged with uncertainty, ventured, "The barbarians might have held them captive."
Another, retainer though no less grim, countered, "I trust the report of the Stewart. The barbarians were annihilated...a month ago."
A hushed, anxious speculation mingled in the air as another addendum followed, "They might have been attacked by the monsters in the Cursed Forest of Monsters."
A further voice, softer yet weighted with pragmatic concern, added, "Reports said that they only wander the woods that skirt its edges where there is no monster and should be safe. No bloodshed. They must have been chasing the remaining escaping barbarians."