I had been waiting for young master Jakob for two long days.
Two days in which my heart had both swelled and ached, unsure if the young master would ever return, unsure if the news I had received through letters carried even half the weight of truth.
The letter had arrived earlier this evening, delivered by a rider I had never seen before, bearing the insignia of the Northern Watch.
The paper was heavy, the handwriting precise, almost regal, and it told me that the young master had not only confronted the Chief of Carmien but had overthrown him entirely. He had seized control.
The words leapt off the page with a force that made my heart pound and my hands tremble.
I sat at the desk in my study, the quill trembling in my hand as I tried to write the speech I had promised myself I would deliver once the young master returned. The villagers had to know. They needed to understand the courage, the cunning, and the strength of Jakob Jakobster.
My handwriting faltered as I tried to choose words worthy of his deeds.
The candle flickered, casting long shadows across the walls.
I paused, leaning back in my chair, letting my mind drift to the young master.
Two days had passed, yet I imagined him moving through the shadows, silent, decisive, the same calm and calculating presence that had always struck fear and respect in my heart.
Even the mere idea of our great lord had a weight to it.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something.
A flickering glow, faint and blurry at first, dancing against the glass of the manor’s window.
At first, I thought it was a trick of my eyes, a reflection of the candlelight. But no. The orange glow pulsed and grew brighter, and my stomach twisted with sudden dread.
I pushed back from the desk, my quill rolling across the table, and I hurried to the window. My breath caught as I saw the source of the light.
It was uphill, near the Northern Fence, where the outposts of the Northern Watch were stationed.
Flames licked the night sky, shadows stretching far beyond their reach, twisting and writhing as though alive.
I could see movement now, shapes darting through the firelight, dark figures moving with deadly precision.
The men of the Northern Watch were there, but they were outnumbered.
The glow of the torches reflected off the polished metal of their armor, but it was not enough. The figures in black cloaks battling with the men of the watch pressed closer, unstoppable, and the air itself seemed to grow heavier with every moment.
I stumbled back from the window, the quill slipping from my fingers, heart hammering.
Two days. Two days of thinking everything was under control, of imagining that the young master had prepared us for all eventualities, and now this.
I ran to the manor doors, throwing them open. The night air hit me like a whip, thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning wood.
I could hear the clash of steel,
the cries of men,
and something else.
Something that twisted my gut with a nameless fear.
The shriek of anger, the guttural sound of something not human.
I ran through the village, shouting at the top of my lungs.
“EVACUATE! THE FENCE HAS BEEN BREACHED! RUN TO THE FIELDS! RUN TO THE RIVERS!”
My voice echoed through the streets, but it was swallowed by chaos.
People screamed as the masked figures poured into Foklunn, setting fire to homes with torches, breaking doors, and moving from house to house.
The smoke was thick now, curling and clawing at the sky, carrying the smell of wood and straw burning.
I could barely see through the haze. The villagers ran blindly, stumbling over carts, fences, and each other, terrified beyond reason. Mothers clutched children, men tried to fight back with pitchforks and swords, but they were overwhelmed.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, strong and solid. A Foklunn guard had caught up to me, his eyes wide with fear.
“Moris’, Stand behind me.” he said sternly.
We ducked behind a toppled cart as a figure in black passed by, moving with supernatural speed. My heart was hammering, every instinct screaming at me to flee, yet my mind refused to shut down. I could not leave my people to die without doing something.
I glanced just in time to see a masked assailant swing a blade in my direction.
I ducked instinctively, barely avoiding the strike.
The guard grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet, and then we lunged forward.
Another figure swung, and the guard countered, knocking the mask off with a solid strike of his own weapon.
The mask tumbled to the ground.
My stomach twisted violently as I saw what was beneath it.
Not a face.
Not a human expression.
Only charred, blackened bone, the hollow sockets where eyes should have been.
A skull that had once been flesh, now nothing but ash and shadow, grinning at me in mockery.
The face of the undead.
```
The village burned around us. Smoke clawed at my throat, stung my eyes, and painted the sky an angry orange that reflected off every surface.
We fought. Or tried to. Wave after wave of them came, blackened shadows clawing out of the flames, skeletal shapes moving faster than logic allowed.
No matter how many we cut down, more kept coming.
It was impossible.
My saber swung almost on instinct, precise thrusts, parries, strikes.
Every movement I made felt sharp, almost musical, yet hopeless. Each body I felled dissolved into ash, and another rose in its place beyond the fence.
Kens was beside me, shouting orders to the men of the Northern Watch, trying desperately to organize some kind of defense.
But even he could not hide the tension on his face, the white of his teeth showing as he gritted them.
“FALL BACK! EVERYONE! EVACUATE THE VILLAGE!” he yelled.
I shook my head, staggering forward, hacking a zombie-like thing in half with my saber.
“THEY’RE ALREADY GONE! KEEP MOVING SOLDIER!” Kens yelled at a frozen watchman.
His normally carefree tone was sharp now, tempered with urgency I had rarely seen in him.
His sword flashed, slicing through another of the creatures with a speed that made my head spin.
A shriek, almost human but stretched and distorted, echoed across the village.
Then,
Suddenly,
A figure appeared above us.
At first, I thought it was another illusion caused by the flames.
Then I realized it was real.
Floating.
Walking in the air,
moving as though gravity were a suggestion rather than a law.
The fires of Foklunn reflected off him, illuminating every detail.
A young man. Light-skinned. Curly blonde hair cascading down his back.
His eyes glowed emerald green, unnaturally bright, cutting through the smoke like lasers.
He wore white robes, long and flowing, extravagant in a way that seemed designed to make mortals feel small, divine.
Green and gold symbols were stitched into the fabric. Symbols I did not recognize but instinctively knew were important, powerful. They shimmered faintly in the firelight.
He stopped in midair and looked down at us, surveying the chaos like it was a game.
“I am one of the Three Great Legacies,”
he said, his voice carrying, amplified somehow, spreading across the village, across the hills, the smoke, the fields.
We had no idea whatever he meant by ‘one of the three great legacies’, but it sounded important.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“You may call me Luck, for now.”
Even with the roar of flames and the shrieks of the undead, his voice reached every corner of the burning village. Calm. Certain. Young, yet arrogantly confident.
“I, on behalf of the Legacy Sovereigns, openly declare war on the Kingdom of Frandore, and all of her territories…”
He paused and shot a grin at me specifically.
“...starting with this one.”
he continued, voice carrying that irritatingly cool cadence of a teenager trying to sound like he owned the world.
“And I shall claim the continent of Fractasia as my own. You may all witness as I become the True Emperor of this land. You may fight, you may resist, but it will all be in vain.”
I froze for a moment, staring up at him. The air seemed to warp around him, making the heat of the fire feel distant. His presence was intoxicating. Dangerous. Divine. A force I could not measure with logic or training.
Kens cursed under his breath and then turned to his men.
“EVERYONE! PULL BACK! HORSES, CARTS, EVERY ABLE-BODIED PERSON, EVACUATE THE VILLAGE!”
I shook my head again, trying to fight one of the undead pressing close, but it was like fighting smoke.
It would vanish for a second and then return from a different angle.
My arm caught a blow, the edge of a sword slicing into my forearm. Pain erupted, searing into my nerves.
I stumbled, clutching my arm, and felt my strength ebbing.
“Kens!” I shouted, voice raw. “I can still-”
“Jakob!” he cut me off, his eyes grim, no trace of his usual mischief. “No! Move! We have to go! Now!”
Before I could protest, he was beside me. He lifted me, threw me over the saddle of one of the Northern Watch horses.
His hands were firm, confident, guiding me into position, even as the undead pressed closer and closer.
The world blurred as he spurred the horse forward.
It moved faster than I thought a horse could, faster than I thought humans could even guide one.
There was something in the air, a magical augmentation, a force bending reality itself, and I realized he was using magic, maybe from the Northern Watch’s reserves, to make us almost untouchable.
I clung to the horse’s mane, my vision streaked with smoke and fire. Foklunn was falling behind us, the village burning, the undead still pressing, and yet we moved like shadows themselves.
I could hear Kens shouting behind me. His voice carried over the chaos, over the screams and the crackle of fire.
“WAKE THEM! WAKE THE ESTATES! WAKE EVERYONE! THE KINGDOM IS UNDER ATTACK!”
The words hit me even as my body weakened.
My limbs felt like lead, my head swimming.
My saber was gone, my armor charred from the fires we had passed.
The Northern Watchmen behind us fought off stragglers, riding like demons themselves, keeping us clear of the relentless horde.
I tried to push myself upright, to stay conscious, but the world started folding in on itself.
Flames, smoke, death, the voice of Luck echoing in my mind, all warping together into a chaotic tide.
“Jakob!” Kens’ voice was closer now, panicked but controlled. “Stay with me!”
I tried to respond, to argue, to plan, but I could barely see.
Pain radiated from my arm and side, blood soaking my tunic.
My muscles refused to obey, and my mind drifted between focus and nothingness.
The horse galloped through the trees of Jabbelore Forest, shadows leaping and twisting as we passed.
My vision flickered between the glowing green eyes of the undead that still lurked behind, the orange of the flames in Foklunn burning in the distance, and the soft illumination of the moon above the treetops.
I tried to form a plan, any plan, in my mind.
How could I save my people?
How could I survive?
How could we respond to this force that called itself a Legacy? Luck.
The name repeated over and over, somewhat childish yet leaving a terrifying impression, wrapped around every thought like smoke.
Kens’ hands were firm on the reins.
His eyes were sharp, scanning every movement.
Despite the danger, despite the chaos, there was a reckless gleam in them.
That was Kens Kaeluse.
The forest blurred past us.
Trees became streaks of black and green.
Leaves whipped against my face.
The ground beneath us seemed to disappear,
replaced with shadows that we rode over like water.
“Hold on!” Kens shouted. “Almost there! Just a little farther!”
My body shivered, fatigue and pain coiling together into a heavy fog that made it hard to think, hard to breathe.
The voices of the villagers, the screams, the cries of the dead, the echoing threats of Luck, all spiraled around me.
I could see nothing.
I could hear nothing except Kens’ voice, strong and unwavering.
And yet, the fear inside me, the hopelessness of seeing Foklunn fall, of seeing the people I had sworn to protect engulfed by fire and shadows,
weighed heavier than anything I had ever felt.
I felt myself slipping,
my consciousness giving way,
thoughts fading,
memories of strategies and plans,
of faces of the villagers,
dissolving into a haze of pain and heat and fear.
I tried to fight it,
tried to push myself upright,
to stay aware.
But the world tilted,
darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision.
Wondering whether or not I’d come back this time.
But I wasn’t counting on it.
The last thing I saw,
the last thing I felt,
was Kens’ face, resolute, shouting above the roar of the forest and the chaos,
a guiding anchor in a world consumed by fire and death.
I could feel myself starting to pass out.
Thus,
My world went black once again.
```
The village of Foklunn burned.
Flames licked at the timber walls of the houses, curling high into the night sky and casting jagged shadows across the empty streets.
Smoke choked the air, thick and suffocating, carrying the scent of charred wood, scorched earth, and something darker, something older.
The village was alive with fire yet dead in every other sense.
Villagers who had not escaped now reduced to ash, the remnants of their bodies consumed in seconds.
Through the haze of smoke and the crackle of burning rooftops, a figure descended slowly from the night sky.
He moved as if the air itself obeyed him, unhurried, almost curious.
The flames reflected off the white of his robes, green and gold sigils shimmering faintly even in the dark.
His emerald-green eyes glowed brightly, cutting through the blackened smoke and the orange glow of fire.
He who calls himself Luck landed in the center of the village, feet brushing over the flaming ground yet leaving no scorch on his robes.
Around him, the fire recoiled subtly, bending toward him as though acknowledging his presence.
He looked towards the fire with intensity as if it were truly sentient and alive,
He closed his eyes for a moment and spoke aloud,
his voice carrying effortlessly over the inferno.
“How do the souls of those villagers feel?”
There was a slight and awkward pause.
Until suddenly,
The fire answered.
Almost in a voice of its own, crackling and hissing through the timber.
“Warm. Simple,” it said. “Like, y’know… villagers.”
Luck opened his eyes and smiled faintly, tilting his head as though contemplating the reply.
For a moment, the world seemed still, silent except for the burning of the village. Then the fire shifted.
The orange flames drained into black, thick and unnerving, consuming the light and leaving the streets and houses in darkness.
Shadows pooled unnaturally on the cobblestones. A figure emerged from within the jet-black fire, stepping forward slowly.
He was a man.
A human, but not in the ordinary sense.
His skin was a shade of gray that absorbed the light, blending with the surrounding shadows.
His hair was messy and black, falling unevenly around a sharp face.
The most arresting detail were his eyes, glowing a crimson red, piercing the night with unnatural intensity.
He wore a wide-brimmed black hat that seemed to drink in the light around it, perched at a rakish angle atop his head.
His body was clad entirely in shades of black and gray, layered with a checkered kimono-like robe over an all-black attire, flowing loosely around his frame.
At his right hip, a sheathed curved sword hung, partially obscured by his robe.
He stepped from the shadowed flames as though walking out of another realm entirely.
The fire around him recoiled, leaving a jagged corridor of darkness through which he moved.
His presence was heavier than the smoke and the fire, a weight that seemed to warp the space around him.
Luck regarded him with familiarity, his green eyes bright in the blackened village.
“You’re the whole reason why we’re in this mess soooo early,” Luck said, his tone calm, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather.
The man tilted his head, red eyes glinting sharply. A faint grin touched his lips beneath the shadow of the hat.
“Waiting would be booooring,” he said simply. His voice was soft, casual, almost indifferent. “I prefer seeing how quickly things burn when I choose when.”
Around them, the village continued to burn, the smoke rising thickly into the night sky.
The streets were littered with ash, splintered timber, and the remnants of lives erased in an instant. The blackened figure stepped forward, letting the shadows around him ripple like living water.
It was clear now, even to distant observers, that the attack on Foklunn had been planned with meticulous intent.
The undead, rising from the ashes and swarming the village, were not random. They moved with precision, guided by the will of this man in the black-brimmed hat.
Luck’s gaze swept over the devastation.
He did not move to stop the man, nor did he appear surprised.
He allowed the figure to stride through the center of the burning village, observing calmly.
The man in black said nothing, only lifting his eyes to meet Luck’s green gaze.
His red eyes glimmered, reflecting the flames around them.
“We’ve chosen to reveal ourselves once and for all,” Luck continued. His voice remained steady, even as the village burned to ruin around them. “This is only the beginning.”
The man in the black-brimmed hat remained silent. Covering his face to hide his second-hand embarrassment, though a shadow of amusement flickered across his crimson gaze.
Luck took a slow step forward, the hem of his white robes brushing over the remnants of ash and debris. He spoke to the fire again, quietly, almost as a thought spoken aloud.
The black figure moved closer to the heart of the inferno. Flames bent around him, thick and dark as though repelled by some force.
“You let the herald go on… purpose, right?” Luck asked softly.
“Yeah yeah,” the man replied casually, almost dismissively. “This is a whole lot more fun than waiting an entire fucking month to do anything at all, don’tcha think?”
They stood there, a figure of white and green against a shadow of gray and black, the fire between them licking upward yet leaving neither touched.
The village itself seemed to pause, if only for a heartbeat, acknowledging the weight of their presence.
Around them, the ashen bodies of the villagers remained, silent witnesses to an unfolding plan that would stretch far beyond Foklunn. The firelight illuminated the handle of the sheathed sword at the man’s side, glinting faintly.
“It was about time I let these undead babies loose,” the man in black said. “Heh, any more waiting and they would’ve started eating each other by now.”
Luck nodded once, his expression still composed, his glowing green eyes scanning the shadows.
“Then let it begin. The game is no longer waiting. Our conquest starts now.”
The black figure nodded his head slightly, a gesture almost imperceptible, yet full of intent.
Around them, the smoke and fire rose, creating a theater of destruction that would echo far beyond the borders of this small village.
“I wonder when he’s gonna be back from the void. We can’t be called the three legacies when we’re missing a guy.” The black-brimmed figure lightly commented.
“He’ll be back soon. Probably.” Luck retorted
And in the middle of the burning village, with the smoke curling like living fingers into the night sky, a sense of inevitability settled over the Kingdom of Frandore.
The ones to pull the strings had finally made their appearance.
