Sir Barrys’ journey home to Westwood was long and emotionally arduous, his first return in months. Memories flooded his mind as he approached the familiar landscape, now tainted by the weight of change. The passing of Chirurgeon Breaus, Miley’s tragic demise, and the countless lives lost in Westwood, which he felt he had failed to protect, all swirled in his thoughts.

  Determined to bring about change, Sir Barrys steeled himself for the challenges ahead. Yet, Princess Elaine’s words continued to haunt him: “Sir Cole is dead.” The vision he had seen in Lin Haven castle – Sir Cole swimming in a pool of blood – lingered, refusing to be shaken.

  As he rode into Westwood, Sir Barrys’ mind raced with conflicting emotions and thoughts. Grief, guilt, and resolve wrestled for dominance, fueling his determination to set things right.

  As Sir Barrys approached Westwood’s gates, he was surprised to find the city thriving despite the turmoil. A guard stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “State your business.”

  Sir Barrys removed his helmet, revealing his familiar face. The guard’s expression transformed to one of joy and reverence. “Sir Barrys!” he exclaimed.

  “I am Sir Barrys, a knight of the High Table… or at least, I used to be,” Sir Barrys said with a hint of humility.

  The guard beamed. “Sir Barrys, I knew you wouldn’t abandon us in these dark times.”

  Sir Barrys smiled, his eyes warming. “I would never forget my people.”

  The guard extended a welcoming hand. “Lord Weah will be overjoyed to see you.”

  With a nod, Sir Barrys mounted his horse, his light armor a stark contrast to the radiant white cape flowing behind him. As he rode through Westwood, the sunlight dancing across his cape drew admiring stares. The city’s residents parted, whispering among themselves.

  Sir Barrys navigated the winding streets, his destination clear: Lord Weah’s courtroom.

  In Lord Weah’s courtroom, the nobles of Westwood convened, their discussion centered on the enigmatic White god. A guard interrupted, “My lord, you have a visitor.”

  Lord Weah barely glanced up. “The visitor can wait; I’m occupied.”

  Sir Barrys entered, his presence commanding attention. “Lord Weah,” he said, bowing respectfully.

  The courtroom fell silent, faces agog. Lord Weah rose, surprise etched on his face. “Sir Barrys! I thought you’d forgotten us.”

  Sir Barrys replied, his voice steadfast, “Never.”

  He took a seat among the nobles, Lord Weah inquiring, “But how did you leave the capital? I doubt the Knight King approved your departure.”

  Sir Barrys’ expression turned resolute. “He didn’t. I was told leaving would cost me my status as a Knight of the High Table. Yet, Westwood’s people mean more to me than any title or prestige.”

  Lord Weah and the nobles exchanged shocked glances, aware of the magnitude of Sir Barrys’ sacrifice.

  Lord Weah said, “You truly are a son of Westwood, Sir Barrys.”

  Sir Barrys smiled. “With all my heart.”

  Lord Weah asked, “Have you heard from Sir Cole?”

  Sir Barrys’ expression turned somber. “No, the Knight King sent him on a secret mission. There’s been no word.”

  Lord Weah’s brow furrowed. “This is concerning. The west needs him now more than ever. But with you here, we have hope.”

  Sir Barrys smiled graciously. “You honor me, Lord Weah.”

  He inquired, “The city seems intact, has the White god’s attack ceased?”

  Lord Weah exchanged glances with the nobles. “We’ve had no attacks in days. People are regaining confidence.”

  Sir Barrys nodded. “That’s reassuring. However, we must remain vigilant, the White god could strike at any moment.”

  Lord Weah leaned forward. “We’ve developed a method to counter the attacks – at least, for now.”

  Sir Barrys’ face lit up. “That’s remarkable news!”

  Lord Weah suggested, “Take a stroll around the city, breathe in some fresh air. You must be weary from your journey.”

  Sir Barrys stood, his smile unwavering. “Westwood remains my home. I’ll take your advice, my lord.”

  Lord Weah nodded in approval.

  Sir Barrys departed the courtroom, his gaze sweeping across Westwood’s landscape. He made his way to the care room, seeking familiar faces. Inside, he found Gareth and Chirurgeon Wilson tending to a patient.

  Gareth’s eyes locked onto Sir Barrys, and he burst into laughter, arms outstretched. “I knew you’d come back!” he exclaimed, embracing Sir Barrys warmly.

  Chirurgeon Wilson looked up, a hint of a smile on his face. “Ye Barrys, you’re back. Long time no see.”

  Sir Barrys smiled. “Chirurgeon Wilson, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Chirurgeon Wilson nodded, focused on his work. “A long time, Sir Barrys.”

  Gareth invited Sir Barrys to sit, and he did. Sir Barrys revealed, “I’ve lost my status as a Knight of the High Table. The Knight King banished me from the capital.”

  Gareth’s jaw dropped in shock. Chirurgeon Wilson paused, his hands moving with precision. “The Knight King’s temper often gets the better of him. You broke his law.”

  Sir Barrys’ voice rang with conviction. “I did, and I’d do it again a thousand times for my people.”

  Just then, the patient on the table began gasping loudly, stretching out a hand. Chirurgeon Wilson instructed Gareth, “Quickly, get hot water!”

  Gareth sprinted out of the room. Sir Barrys’ face etched with concern. “How can I help?”

  Chirurgeon Wilson’s voice remained calm. “Fetch me some rags, fast.”

  Sir Barrys nodded and rushed off, his swift response a testament to his unwavering dedication.

  In this moment, Sir Barrys proved himself a true knight, humbling himself before his people, ready to serve.

  IN THE CAPITAL

  The Knights of the High Table assembled, their faces etched with worry and dismay. Sir Barrys’ seat stood empty, a poignant reminder of his departure and lost status. Grand Advisor Liam’s absence was notable, his illness confining him to bed.

  The Knight King’s gaze swept the room before beginning. “The past few weeks have been dire for the Kingdom of Herald, yet we remain steadfast. I extend my condolences to Sir Anfield Potts, who lost his son Leon. Sir Leon’s ultimate sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

  Sir Anfield’s swollen eyes betrayed his grief, his gaze fixed on some distant memory.

  The assembly’s brevity was striking, with no mention of Sir Barrys’ departure. The Knight King seemed to deliberately omit it.

  Sir Anfield rose, his voice trembling. “Your Grace, I have something to say.”

  The room’s attention shifted to him, curiosity and concern etched on every face. The Knight King nodded. “You may speak, Sir Anfield.”

  Sir Anfield’s voice cracked. “One seat here is empty – Sir Barrys’. I will vacate my duty as a Knight of the High Table, but my seat won’t remain empty. I nominate my son, Sir Gregory Potts of House Potts, as my successor. After 40 years of service, I’ll leave the capital. Memories of my knightly duties will forever be cherished. I hope to continue serving the realm in another capacity.”

  Tears streamed down Sir Anfield’s face as he struggled to compose himself.

  The Knight King sighed, his nod a mixture of understanding and resignation. With a wave of his hand, the assembly was dismissed.

  Alone, the Knight King pondered the realm’s turmoil and his own leadership.

  HOUSE POTTS

  Also that day, a solemn gathering convened at House Potts, where Sir Anfield Potts, the venerable leader, stood tall. His voice resonated through the hall as he declared, “My son, Sir Gregory, shall succeed me as the representative of House Potts in the Knight of the High Table.”

  Murmurs rippled through the room, shock etched on every face. Sir Gregory, most astonished of all, struggled to comprehend the weight of his new responsibility.

  Sir Anfield approached his son, his eyes shining with pride. He removed his badge, the symbol of his post as a knight of the high table, and pinned it to Sir Gregory’s chest. “This badge carries the legacy of House Potts. You now bear the weight of our family’s honor.”

  Sir Gregory’s gaze locked onto the badge, his heart swelling with pride and trepidation.

  Sir Anfield’s voice took on a deeper tone. “I loved you just as much as I loved Leon.” His words conveyed a depth of emotion, a promise of trust.

  As Sir Anfield hugged his son, Sir Gregory’s shock slowly gave way to determination.

  Returning to his original stance, Sir Anfield announced, “I have retired from my knightly duties.” The room fell silent.

  Jeane Potts, Sir Anfield’s aged uncle, spoke up, “What’s next for you, my nephew?”

  Sir Anfield’s gaze drifted westward. “I’ve spent my life protecting House Potts, ensuring its glory. After Leon’s passing, I feel my time has come to an end. A new era begins. I’ll journey west, to our ancestral roots, where House Potts’ history began. Who among you will join me on this new path?”

  The room erupted into murmurs, some thinking Sir Anfield had lost his resolve. Yet, amidst the uncertainty, hands began to rise.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “I’ll go with you, Sir Anfield!”

  Sir Anfield’s face lit up with a warm smile as he beheld those willing to follow him into the unknown.

  Sir Gregory watched, his heart heavy with the burden of responsibility, as House Potts’ legacy now rested squarely on his shoulders.

  The next morning, Sir Anfield’s bags were packed, and the few men who pledged to join him on his new journey stood ready. As Sir Anfield prepared his horse, his son, Sir Gregory, approached him, his eyes tinged with emotion.

  “Is this goodbye, Father?” Sir Gregory asked, his voice laced with a mix of sadness and understanding.

  Sir Anfield’s gaze lifted to the horizon. “Look at the sun,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  Sir Gregory followed his father’s gaze, a soft smile spreading across his face. In unison, they recited the ancient slogan of House Potts: “And when the sun never shines, a Potts will say his forever goodbyes.”

  Sir Anfield’s face lit up with laughter and pride as he stared at his son. He tapped Sir Gregory’s shoulder, his voice filled with conviction. “Make me proud.”

  Sir Gregory nodded, his smile broadening. With those final words, Sir Anfield Potts mounted his horse and rode away, his small entourage following closely behind.

  IN THE GRAND COURT

  The grand court, normally bustling with activity, was eerily quiet, with only the esteemed Knights of the High Table in attendance. Grand Advisor Liam, recovered from his illness, stood among them, his eyes watchful.

  Sir Gregory Potts, bearing the crest of House Potts, strode into the courtroom, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The assembly turned to him: Sir Nicolas, Sir Declan, Sir Ryan, Sir Edric the Dark Knight, Grand Advisor Liam, and the Knight King.

  As Sir Gregory approached, his gaze locked onto the Knight King. He knelt, his eyes unwavering.

  “Do you, Sir Gregory Potts of House Potts, promise loyalty to the crown, service to the realm, and adherence to the knight’s code?” the Knight King asked.

  “I do, I do, and I do,” Sir Gregory replied, his voice firm.

  The Knight King declared, “It is done. With the power vested in me, I hereby make you a Knight of the High Table.” He raised his sword, touching it to Sir Gregory’s shoulder.

  “Arise, Sir Gregory Potts of House Potts, Knight of the High Table.”

  The assembly applauded in unison as Sir Gregory stood. His gaze shifted to Sir Edric, a challenge in his eyes.

  Sir Gregory walked toward Sir Edric, dropping his glove in a deliberate gesture, signaling single combat.

  Sir Edric’s expression remained impassive. “If this is retaliation for killing your brother, Sir Leon, you are mistaken. I reject this battle.”

  Sir Gregory’s face reddened. “You reject? Perhaps that’s why you failed to protect the one you loved, the one you were to marry—just as I failed to protect Sir Leon from you.”

  The courtroom fell silent, shock etched on every face, including the Knight King’s.

  Sir Gregory’s words struck a nerve. Sir Edric’s eyes flashed, and he picked up the glove. “Tomorrow, and to the death.”

  The tension was palpable, the weight of the impending duel hanging heavy in the air. One of the two knights would fall tomorrow.

  SIR GREGORY’S CHAMBERS

  Sir Gregory sat in his chambers, quill in hand, writing a letter by the flickering candlelight. He folded the parchment, slipped it into a raven’s message holder, and released the bird into the night.

  Just then, Jeane Potts, his aged grand-uncle, entered the room, his walking stick thudding against the stone floor. He settled into a nearby chair, his eyes piercing.

  “Grand Uncle, shouldn’t you have someone escorting you at your age?” Sir Gregory asked, concern etched on his face.

  Jeane Potts waved his hand dismissively. “Gregory this is time for no joke. Why did you challenge the Dark Knight? Do you wish to die?”

  Sir Gregory’s face set in determination. “So, even you believe I’ll lose to Sir Edric?”

  Jeane Potts’ voice carried a hint of desperation. “Your father lost to the Dark Knight, Leon fell to him… Doesn’t it seem like a family curse?”

  Sir Gregory’s voice hardened. “A curse? Well that’s a curse I’m willing to break.”

  Jeane Potts leaned forward, urgency in his eyes. “Think of what you’re doing, Gregory. We both know you can’t defeat the Dark Knight.”

  Sir Gregory’s confidence grew. “He’s no god, just a mortal. Sir Barrys bested him.”

  Jeane Potts’s expression turned skeptical. “From what I heard, Sir Edric let Sir Barrys win.”

  Sir Gregory’s gaze drifted to the window, his face aglow with determination. “Perhaps he’ll let me win.” He raised his wine cup, savoring the liquid as the candlelight danced across his face.

  Delete

  The raven Sir Gregory had sent earlier soared through the night sky, its wings beating swiftly as it carried its message to its destination. The bird landed with a soft flutter outside Sir Anfield’s tent, where he and his companions had made camp on their journey to Westwood.

  Sir Anfield emerged from the tent, his eyes scanning the darkness until he settled on the raven. He retrieved the message, breaking the seal with a sense of trepidation.

  As he read the contents, his mouth fell open in shock.

  Without hesitation, Sir Anfield woke one of his sleeping companions, his voice low and urgent. “At dawn, continue on to Westwood without me. I must return to the capital immediately.”

  The man rubbed the sleep from his eyes, concern etched on his face. “M’lord, but it’s too late… the roads are treacherous at night.”

  Sir Anfield’s expression brooked no argument. “Just do as I say.”

  With those words, he swiftly mounted his horse and spurred it into a gallop, racing back toward the capital under the moonlit sky.

  The next morning dawned, casting a tense pall over the Capital. The day of reckoning had arrived – Sir Gregory and Sir Edric would clash in a battle for honor and glory. The arena thronged with spectators, their faces set in anticipation. The Knight King, Princess Elaine, Grand Advisor Liam, and the esteemed Knights of the High Table occupied the front rows, their eyes fixed on the impending duel.

  Behind the scenes, Sir Gregory’s squire meticulously adjusted his belts, ensuring his armor was secure. The Potts crest emblazoned on his shield shone brightly, a symbol of his family’s legacy. Jeane Potts, his aged grand-uncle, approached him, his voice low and urgent.

  “Remember, Gregory, there’s no turning back now. You must do the impossible – defeat the Dark Knight.”

  Sir Gregory nodded resolutely, his jaw clenched. With a deep breath, he strode into the arena, his armor glinting in the morning light.

  Sir Edric, the Dark Knight, already stood waiting, his sword at the ready. His expression was impassive, his eyes gleaming with a hint of curiosity.

  As Sir Gregory entered, the crowd’s murmur grew. He wore his helmet, the visor hiding his face, and readied his sword. The drum’s ominous beat echoed through the arena, signaling the commencement of the duel.

  The two knights circled each other, their footsteps measured. Sir Edric, renowned for his ruthless efficiency, charged first. His sword sliced through the air, aiming for Sir Gregory’s shoulder.

  Sir Gregory parried the blow with a swift movement, his shield absorbing the impact. He countered with a series of swift strikes, each one aimed at Sir Edric’s vulnerabilities.

  The Dark Knight dodged and weaved, his own sword flashing in the sunlight. Yet Sir Gregory pressed on, fueled by determination and pride. The crowd watched in awe as Sir Gregory landed blow after blow, pushing Sir Edric back.

  For a moment, it seemed Sir Gregory might emerge victorious. The arena erupted in cheers, the Knight King’s face set in surprise.

  However, Sir Edric’s skill and prowess soon reasserted themselves. He weathered the storm, his expression unchanging. With a sudden, swift strike, he sent Sir Gregory stumbling back.

  Sir Gregory immediately regained his footing, but Sir Edric seized the opening. His sword plunged deep into Sir Gregory’s chest, the sound of clashing steel echoing through the arena.

  Time seemed to slow as Sir Gregory’s eyes widened, his visor slipping askew. He crumpled to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp.

  The crowd’s cheers died, replaced by stunned silence. Sir Edric stood tall, his chest heaving, his sword still lodged in Sir Gregory’s lifeless body.

  The Knight King rose, his face somber. “The Dark Knight prevails.”

  As the arena emptied, Jeane Potts approached Sir Gregory’s body, tears streaming down his face. “You fought with honor, Gregory. Our House’s legacy lives on.”

  Grand Advisor Liam’s eyes locked onto Sir Edric, a hint of unease in his expression. The Dark Knight’s victory had sent a ripple through the capital, forging a new reality.

  Sir Anfield, concealed among the shadows, witnessed the devastating scene unfold before him. His heart sank as Sir Edric’s sword pierced his son’s chest. The sound of clashing steel, the cries of the crowd, and the sight of Sir Gregory’s lifeless body crumpling to the ground overwhelmed him.

  He felt as though he’d been punched in the gut, his breath knocked out of him. His mind reeled, struggling to comprehend the reality of his son’s demise. The arena’s noise faded into the background as he stared, transfixed, at the scene.

  Sir Anfield’s thoughts raced back to the moments he’d shared with Sir Gregory – the laughter, the arguments, the quiet moments of understanding. He recalled the pride he’d felt when Sir Gregory was knighted, the hope he’d held for his son’s future.

  Now, all that remained was grief and anguish.

  As the crowd dispersed, Sir Anfield remained hidden, unable to tear his eyes away from his son’s body. Jeane Potts’ words, “You fought with honor, Gregory. Our House’s legacy lives on,” echoed in his mind, but brought no solace.

  The Knight King’s declaration, “The Dark Knight prevails,” cut through Sir Anfield’s numbness, filling him with a sense of injustice. He knew that Sir Edric’s victory came at a terrible cost – the life of his only son.

  Sir Anfield’s gaze locked onto Sir Edric, his eyes burning with a mix of sorrow, anger, and determination. He vowed, in that moment, to ensure his son’s memory would not be forgotten.

  With a heavy heart, Sir Anfield slipped away, unseen, into the shadows, his mind already turning toward the future and the justice he sought.

  IN THE WEST

  Reagan’s formidable army, bearing his crest, marched steadily toward Westwood, their numbers swelling to 50,000. Doherty, Sir O’Reilly, and Lord Norton rode alongside Reagan, their faces set with determination.

  As they approached the outskirts of Westwood, Reagan raised his hand, signaling his men to halt. “We’ll make camp here. I require fifty volunteers to ride to Westwood and deliver a message to Lord Weah.”

  Reagan’s voice carried across the ranks. “Tell Lord Weah to bend the knee to me, and I shall spare Westwood. Emphasize that this is for the greater good, and the will of gods.”

  Doherty stepped forward, his voice firm. “I’ll lead the delegation, Lord Reagan. I’ll take forty-nine men with me.”

  Reagan nodded gravely. “Very well, Doherty. Understand that this mission comes with risks. You may not return, but rest assured, your lives will not be lost in vain.”

  Doherty nodded, his jaw set. Other volunteers stepped forward, ready to carry Reagan’s message.

  Sir O’Reilly leaned in, his voice low and eager. “I hope westwood refuse to bend the knee, Lord Reagan. It’s been too long since I’ve fought a bloody battle. I crave the sight of steel meeting steel.”

  Reagan’s gaze turned to Sir O’Reilly, his expression measured. “Sometimes, we must choose a path that avoids bloodshed. It is the will of the gods.”

  Sir O’Reilly’s face fell, displeasure etched on his features.

  “And what if they refuse to bend the knee?” Sir O’Reilly asked, his tone laced with anticipation.

  Reagan’s voice remained steady. “That would be unwise of them. But if they refuse, we will strike with full force.”

  Doherty and his companions mounted their horses, ready to ride into Westwood. Reagan and his remaining 49,950 men stayed behind, poised for battle, awaiting the outcome of the delegation.

  Doherty and his forty-nine companions rode toward Westwood, bearing Lord Reagan’s crest. As they approached the city gates, Sir Clinton halted them, demanding to know their business.

  Doherty, at the forefront, declared, “We bring news for Lord Weah, from Lord Reagan.”

  Sir Clinton’s expression darkened, and he hastily attempted to close the gates. However, Doherty and his men swiftly rode inside, prompting Sir Clinton to sound the alarm bell and shout, “We’re under attack!”

  Sir Barrys, sparring with young kids in training, swiftly responded to the commotion. He rode forth, joined by other Westwood defenders, who attacked Doherty’s men. Despite being outnumbered, Doherty’s men fought valiantly.

  “We mean no harm!” Doherty cried out, but Sir Barrys, recognizing Reagan’s crest, ordered the assault to continue.

  Doherty’s men fell one by one, until only he remained. Overpowered and wounded, he was dragged to Lord Weah’s courtroom.

  Lord Weah stood, his eyes narrowing. “State your business.”

  Doherty, on his knees, declared, “I bear Lord Reagan’s crest. We the people of the truth demand Westwood’s surrender. Bend the knee to Lord Reagan, as the gods will, and for the greater good of the realm.”

  Lord Weah scoffed. “What nonsense do you speak?”

  Doherty’s laughter echoed through the courtroom. “Lord Reagan’s army, fifty thousand strong, awaits mere miles away. Spare your people, and avoid bloodshed. Bend the knee to Lord Reagan.”

  Sir Clinton interrupted, presenting Lord Weah with a parchment found on one of Doherty’s men. Lord Weah’s eyes widened as he read the contents.

  “Never did I think Reagan’s darkness would descend upon Westwood… This is the beginning of the end,” Lord Weah whispered.

  Tension gripped the courtroom as news spread like wildfire. Citizens fled Westwood, seeking safety. Gallagher, sensing calamity even greater than the white god’s terror hastened toward the capital.

  Lord Weah swiftly convened an emergency meeting with Westwood’s nobles and esteemed citizens.

  The emergency gathering was tense, fear etched on every face. Doherty’s warning weighed heavily: 50,000 men marched toward Westwood, demanding surrender.

  “My lords, the situation is dire,” Lord Weah began. “If true, we stand no chance against such numbers.”

  Sir Clinton suggested, “We must write to neighboring western cities and the Knight King.”

  Old Man Hacklesworth countered, “What aid can they offer? Even if the Knight King sends reinforcements, won’t Westwood fall before they arrive?”

  Lord Weah’s expression turned grave. “You speak the truth, Hacklesworth.”

  Sir Barrys stood tall. “I defended the north against Reagan’s men; I’ll do it again. We must do battle.”

  Lord Weah asked, “How many men did you face?”

  Sir Barrys replied, “Nearly a thousand.”

  Sir Clinton interrupted, “A thousand? We face 50,000, if Doherty speaks truth.”

  Murmurs spread, until Lord Weah declared, “We’ll never bend the knee to such tyranny. We’ll fight with honor, though it means our demise.”

  Sir Clinton cautioned, “My lord, we have fewer than 2,000 men. They’ll annihilate us.”

  Sir Barrys retorted, “Better to die with honor than submit to Reagan’s rule.”

  Hacklesworth warned, “Westwood’s fall will imperil humanity. Reagan will storm the capital, unchecked.”

  Lord Weah’s voice rose above the murmurs. “Gather our men! Prepare for battle! Reopen the gates; let any who wish to leave, depart!”

  The moment of truth had arrived: nearly 2,000 men against 50,000.

  Sir Clinton swiftly gathered the men, armor clanking, swords ringing out as they prepared for battle against Reagan’s formidable forces. Despite the daunting odds, determination coursed through their veins.

  By Lord Weah’s order, Doherty’s fate was sealed. His head was severed and sent back to Reagan on his own horse, a defiant message.

  In the brief respite before battle, Lord Weah tasked Sir Barrys with bolstering the men’s morale. Sir Barrys ascended a raised platform, surveying the sea of resolute faces.

  “Our great city, Westwood, has known prosperity and peace,” Sir Barrys continued, his voice carrying across the gathering. “But these are dark times. The White gods’ attacks seemed to have receded, only for Reagan’s men to strike. We stand alone, facing an enemy whose numbers we cannot know. We do not fight with certainty of victory, but with pride and honor. We will not bend the knee to Reagan.”

  Sir Barrys paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd.

  “Whether we emerge victorious or fall, it matters not. What binds us together as people of the West is our unyielding spirit. We will do what duty demands.”

  With a battle cry, Sir Barrys raised his sword aloft. The men roared approval, their voices echoing through Westwood’s streets.

  This moment revealed the mettle of Westwood’s people, unbroken by calamity, unshaken by fear. They stood strong, ready to face the unknown.

  Reagan and his legion stood poised, awaiting the response from Westwood. Then, on the horizon, Doherty’s horse appeared, riderless and burdened with a grim cargo: Doherty’s severed head.

  Sir O’Reilly’s smile twisted with malice. “It seems Westwood chooses bloodshed.”

  As the horse drew nearer, Reagan claimed Doherty’s head, his eyes blazing with pain and fury. “They will pay for this!” he thundered.

  To his men, Reagan roared, “We do battle!” Sir O’Reilly’s smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

  With Lord Norton and Sir O’Reilly by his side, Reagan led the 49,950-strong force toward Westwood.

  Meanwhile, Sir Barrys and Westwood’s defenders advanced, ready to face the onslaught. The two armies clashed on the vast landscape before Westwood.

  Lord Weah’s eyes widened in awe. “I cannot count their numbers.”

  Sir Barrys steeled himself, his heart whispering, “Sir Cole, I wish you were here, but I lead Westwood in battle. This is surely our end.”

  Reagan’s voice carried across the battlefield, ordering one of his men to sound the war horn. The haunting blast echoed through the landscape.

  Sir Barrys unsheathed his sword, shouting, “On me!” as the two forces collided.

  The blades danced, their deadly rhythm echoing across the battlefield. The gods watched on, witnessing the carnage unfold.

  IN THE CAPITAL

  Meanwhile the White god’s assault in the middle ring intensified. The Knight King summoned Sir Edric, the Dark Knight immediately. “As Lord Commander, it’s your duty to find and stop the White god,” he urged. “The people need hope now Sir Edric.”

  Sir Edric nodded without saying a word and swiftly gathered his men. “Meet me in the middle ring,” he instructed.

  As his men dispersed, Sir Edric rode toward the lower ring on Soul Snatcher, his majestic steed. He halted at an abandoned house, dismounted, and approached cautiously.

  A hooded figure emerged. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly.

  Sir Edric’s voice was low. “Valery Potts of House Potts. So, this is where you reside.”

  The hooded man revealed his face. “So, you’ve found me.”

  “Do you want to be found?” Sir Edric inquired.

  Valery’s expression turned bitter. “No… I’m nothing.”

  Sir Edric revealed his knowledge. “I killed Sir Leon, Sir Gregory. And your father Sir Anfield has left the capital.”

  Valery’s eyes widened. “How did you…?”

  Sir Edric’s tone was introspective. “It wasn’t my intention, but fate unfolded as if written in the stars.”

  Valery looked stunned. “So, what now?”

  Sir Edric’s gaze locked onto Valery’s. “Now, we see where it takes us. I know you’re the Masked Hero, Knightlin.”

  Valery acknowledged, “You’re not just the great knight who saved the realm; you’re also a watchful man, I am impressed.”

  Sir Edric proposed, “Shouldn’t the people know their hero?”

  Valery countered, “A hero can be anyone…even a man doing something simple and reassuring as putting a coat around a young boy’s shoulders to let him know the world hadn’t ended.”

  Sir Edric understood. “So no one will ever know the Masked Hero.”

  Valery smiled. “They know…it was the Knightlin.”

  Sir Edric grasped the deeper meaning. “What I’m about to do was meant to happen then.”

  Valery asked, “What are you about to do?”

  Sir Edric commanded, “Kneel.”

  Valery knelt, and Sir Edric unsheathed his sword. “With the power vested in me, arise, Sir Valery Potts of House Potts, Knight of the Realm.”

  As Valery stood, Sir Edric knighted him.

  Overwhelmed, Valery retreated into the house. Sir Edric waited patiently without asking any questions.

  Minutes passed, and Valery emerged, dressed as a proper knight, bearing the crest of House Potts.

  Sir Edric observed, “So You were prepared.”

  Valery smiled. “I anticipated this moment.”

  Together, they rode toward the middle ring on their steeds.

  An old woman

  watched, whispering, “And where are the twin brothers who insulted this young man? The blades will dance, and the gods will attack…this is only the beginning of the end.”