The sound of explosions filled the air. The screams of death resounded in the hearts of the living, and the chaos of battle filled the very air of the city. War had earned a new meaning. Black knights swarmed over the battlements; no quarter granted for those who surrendered, no quarter for the innocents praying to the Gods for deliverance. Catapualts launched the burning rocks, no longer onto the once-impregnable walls, rather onto the homes once deemed protected. In the distance, as the goodly knights fell into oblivion, the castle was in comeplete disarray.

"Knights! to the front!" A brave commander shouted out to his frantic soliders.
"My lord Bryce!" A soldier shouted as he neared him, "The enemy is at hand!" And sure enough, within seconds, dark, armor-clad soldiers rushed towards the wavering battle line that stood before the castle gates. Bryce did not heed the man's implorations to return to the safetey of the castle, instead he charged. His men were inspired by his reckless courage, and ran after him. Within minutes, the vanguard of the enemy was utterly destroyed.

A messenger ran forth from the castle atop a brilliant charger. He approached Bryce and his company, but was immedietly taken aback by their apperance. Stained with the crimson of blood upon his armor, filled with an unspeakable fury, his eyes seemingly emminating darkness itself, Bryce looked more like an enemy than ally. However, there was no mistaking him. The rider approached him and said, "My lord Bryce. The King demands that you fall back immedietly."

Wordlessly, Bryce glanced about him one last time, then fell back. As he hurried within the bailey, he heard the gates being lifted. He shook his head sadly, he hated to run from the enemy. With haste, he proceeded to the Keep, where the King was. hopefully, ready to draw out a long seige.

Bryce burst into the room, his temperment returning to normal. Bryce, commander of the Knights of Lorell was known as the Dragon Blade. His ferocity and lust for blood that only presented itself in battle was legendary. His normal personality sharply contrasted his berzerker rages. Off the battlefield he was quite the reticent hero.

King Saraphis was not an old man whose mind rotted away with his body. Rather, he was only a few years older than Commander Bryce. Saraphis was a man of honor, and an extremely handsome individual. He had long, jet black hair, that flowed onto his shoulders. His eyes were sharp and an entracing deep blue color. His youth belied his wisdom and intellect. Along with being an expert swordsman and marksman, he was an active scholar of almost every field of science known.
"Bryce," King Saraphis said solmenly, "How many are there?"
"My liege, their numbers exceed what our reports stated by tenfold."
"Ten-thousand?" Saraphis said softly.
"Yes, my lord. The garrison was inadequetly prepared, and we are extremely out numbered." The King said nothing. He stopped examining a battle map, and began pacing. Bryce did not speak, to suggest battle would be immature. The Commander knew very well the temperment of the young King. He had the utter most disdain for war or bloodshed. His first response would be for the safety of his people.
"Guard," Saraphis started suddenly, "Inform the soldiers to allow as many civilians to enter the castle as possible, then lead them out from the caves." The guard nodded then quickly departed.
Suddenly, an enormous explosion rocked the very foundations of the Keep. Bryce was utterly surprised, and yet, so was the King. What kind of tremendous firepower would shake the very castle itself?
A heavily wounded guard, splattered with the crimson of blood entered the room, utterly frantic, and shouted, "There's a breach! There's a breach! The Aonians are rushing in. Flee my lord!" And with that he fainted.

***

"General Xeran..." A weakened guard cried, "The new weapons made a breach in the castle defenses..." He shuddered deeply. "The enemy still fights, however...Bryce lives..." With that he collapsed, dead.

Xeran spat, disgusted. Weak, everyone here is weak. But he cared not for them. His mission was simple, find and kill the King of Lorell. He tightened his hands upon the reigns of his black horse, and took off towards the breach. Dressed in black armor, lined with silver, and a silver cape, Xeran was quite intimidating. His bodyguard unit dressed as he did, but were equipped with powerful silver blades. He held a powerful spear in his hand, tipped with finest silver. It thus became his mark on the battlefield.

Xeran entered the castle to find that there was hard fighting still going on, with the Lorell soldiers actually taking the advantage. But Xeran was not interested in the petty battles of regular infantry, he slipped passed them all with ease alongside his men. The King would be in the top, near the higher towers in order to maximize security. Xeran took off at an incredible speed.

The moved passed the battlefield to the inner halls. The towers were near by. He darted up the stairs and was soon right in front of the door. However, Lorell soldiers met him, several of them. Xeran was right, the King was here. Although surrounded by close walls, the Silver Lancer was hardly supressed by his enviornment. He easily cut his way through ten guards of royal bearing, and reached the door.

By this time his guards caught up with him. Yet, Xeran was anxious to finish off his target. He kicked open the door easily, and to no surprise, dispatched the two guards that remained within. As he gazed around eagerly to seek out his prize, he was immedietly dissapointed. The King was not here. Rather, it was a girl.

Unconscious, on the bloodly floor, stained with crimson was the Princess Syra. Xeran stared at her intently. Her absolute, black, hair had messily drawn a veil over her face. Her pale skin was devoid of any blemish. As Xeran's men secured the room, the Silver Lancer knelt beside her and brushed the hair away from her face. She was beautiful; there was no doubt about it. Her every feature was a sign of the gods's perfection. Xeran felt something stir in his heart, a longing, a desire.

Just then, the horns of retreat sounded within the air. It was the Aonian horn. The Lorell soldiers had driven them back. Xeran was caught now, between the struggle of his body and of his heart. With a grunt of confusion, Xeran lifted the light nymph into his arms, and with his gaurds, stole away as fast as they could.

As he held Syra in his arms, running away from the enemy, Xeran felt releif prevade his heart. A sudden, yet strange, relief.