Ash and Steel - Duke of Disaster 1: Southern Skirmishes and White Tide

 Riverrun, the Southern Marches

The sounds of hooves on packed earth echoed across the yard as Gideon and his father, Duke Gavin, rode toward the keep. The great stone fortress of the Southern Marches loomed before them, its banner—a silver falcon on a field of green—snapping in the wind. After weeks on the road, Gideon's bones ached, but the sight of home filled him with a restless energy, a hunger to move, to be anywhere but sitting still.

As they dismounted, a figure emerged from the keep's arched entrance. Griselda, Duchess of the Southern Marches, stood with a radiant smile that seemed to warm the cold stone around her. She was a woman of calm strength, and her relief at their return was palpable.

"Welcome home, beloved" she said, her voice a soft melody as she embraced her husband. 

Duke Gavin's shoulders seemed to slump with a weary sigh. "Thank you, my dear."

Griselda turned to Gideon, her smile broadening. "And you, my son. Look at you. You've grown a hand taller since we saw you last." She cupped his face in her hands, her touch gentle and familiar. For a brief moment, the armor, the grime, the weariness of the journey all fell away. He was just a boy, a boy of fifteen, home with his mother.

"Thanks, Ma," Gideon mumbled, a little embarrassed by the show of affection. He still felt like a gangly boy, all elbows and broad shoulders.

Gavin clapped Gideon's shoulder, a formal, heavy gesture. "Your mother is right. You've grown. We'll speak of what to do with that growth after you've cleaned up. You have lessons to begin."

The word "lessons" felt like a chain tightening around Gideon's neck. He nodded dutifully, but his eyes were already scanning the yard, longing for the freedom of open space. The thought of being indoors, of being quiet, felt like a prison after the vastness of the road. It was a stark reminder of the other part of his life—the part he was expected to perform, a world away from the solace he had found at Grimstone Keep with Prince Acreseus.


The keep felt like a different world from the vibrant earth outside. Its halls were quiet, its air still, and every footstep echoed with a hushed formality Gideon despised. Most of all, he loathed the need to move silently through the eastern wing. It wasn't hatred that drove him to avoid it; it was something far more unnerving. There was nothing to feel.

Behind the closed doors of that wing lay his younger brother, Garth. A boy four years younger than him, an invalid "always holed up" in a bed that was more a cage than a place of rest. Gideon had no malice toward him, no affection either. Garth was simply... there. An unmovable, unbreakable part of the keep he had to be quiet for, but a part he couldn't connect with.

Gideon would pass by that wing, his boots making no sound on the polished stone. He would hear nothing but the faint whisper of a page turning or the muffled murmur of a servant. He would never knock, never look inside. It was a chore to get past the silence, a simple duty to not disturb, and it was a relief once he was through it.

He would make his way outside, where the wind was loud, the dirt was honest, and the clang of steel on steel was a language he understood. Out there, the complicated silence of the keep could not reach him, and the burdens of a duke's son could be, for a little while, forgotten.


The man arrived just after dusk, his mount a tired gray mare, its flanks caked with mud. He dismounted stiffly, a worn leather scabbard at his hip. The keep guards eyed him with suspicion, but they had been told to expect him. A young page led him into the great hall, where Duke Gavin stood waiting. The Duke regarded the man for a long moment. He was tall, lean, and trail-worn, with haunted blue eyes that seemed to see something else. His armor was scarred and his surcoat was a plain, undyed wool.
"You are Bartholomew?" Duke Gavin asked, his voice ringing in the cavernous hall.
"Aye," the man replied, his voice a low rumble. "From the north."
"Your reference speaks of a warrior unlike any I've seen," the Duke said, a subtle tension in his posture. "A man who can turn the tide of a battle on his own."
"I can fight," Bartholomew said simply. There was no boast in his voice, only a statement of fact.
"Then we shall see," the Duke replied, a hint of desperation in his tone. He motioned for a servant to take the man's horse and lead him to the barracks. "The training yards are open at dawn. My son, Gideon, will be your first pupil." The ghost of a flicker passed through Bartholomew's eyes as he nodded. "The boy," he said quietly, almost to himself. "I will teach him." He then turned and followed the servant out of the hall, leaving the Duke to stare into the empty space, a man who had just placed his family's hope in the hands of a complete stranger.

The midday sun beat down on the dusty training yard, the air thick with the scent of pine and sweat. Gideon was alone, lost in the rhythm of his practice. He swung Sunderer, in sweeping arcs, the steel humming with each pass. He was still refining his form, his movements powerful but lacking the finesse of a seasoned warrior. Lost in his own world, he didn't hear the soft footfalls approaching from the barracks.

Bart stood at the edge of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched Gideon's every move, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he was as still as a statue, a silent observer in a world of motion. Then, without a word, he exploded into a run. His charge was a blur of motion, weapon drawn, the element of surprise his only ally.

Gideon registered the attack a fraction of a second too late. He saw the flash of steel, the fierce set of Bart's jaw, and his body acted on pure instinct. The block was sloppy, a frantic, desperate upward sweep that met Bart's blade with a jarring clang. The force rattled Gideon's bones and sent a shockwave up his arms, but his broadsword held.

Bart pulled back, his weapon held loosely at his side. His eyes were brightened by a fierce, keen light that seemed to make them glow. A slow, thin grin spread across his features, a sight Gideon had never seen before.

"Good reflexes, boy!" he growled, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. "Now let's see if you can use your head as well as your guts."

Instead of taking a traditional fighting stance, Bart settled into something deceptively casual. His stretched his sword arm out, the blade pointing to the sky. His left hand rested on his hip, as if he were simply waiting for a friend. The pose was a pure provocation, an insult in its relaxed confidence, daring the boy to charge him. It was the stance of a man who knew he could win a fight from any position, and it was a visual lesson in itself for the raw, overeager Gideon.


The clang of steel on steel became the new rhythm of the keep. The dust of the yard rose in a cloud around them as Gideon charged, his broadsword, Sunderer, a raw, untamed force. Bart was a blur of motion, slipping past Gideon's brute strength with an almost unsettling grace. "C'mon, Gidi! Bite with me that big fang a yours!" Bart's voice, a low rumble on the wind, egged him on, a strange kind of affection in its growl.
Gideon would put his full weight behind a swing, a blow meant to shatter bone, but Bart would simply sidestep or use the momentum to send him sprawling. The boy would land hard on his arse, the clatter of his armor echoing the thud of his frustration. He was a mountain of a boy, but Bart was teaching him that strength meant nothing without skill.
The training moved from basic sparring to more complex, punishing routines. Bart forced him to fight with a heavy chainmail coat over his leathers, and then with a single leg tied to a post, forcing him to learn to fight with balance and precision. The sweat ran in rivulets down Gideon's face and back, and his muscles, which had felt so powerful, now screamed with every movement. "A broadsword is an extension of your body, not an extra weight," Bart would growl. "If you can't feel the balance, you can't feel the kill!"

Days blurred into a relentless cycle of exhaustion and frustration. There were times when Gideon would roar in anger, a wild, untamed sound that echoed off the keep's walls. He would charge, all muscle and fury, and Bart would meet him with a quiet, unsettling calm. He would simply block, and then with a series of quick, brutal moves, disarm him. "You're a rock, boy! Hard, heavy, and useless if you can't move fast enough!" Bart's words were a constant reminder of his inadequacy.
As Gideon lay there, catching his breath and dusting himself off, Bart would stand over him, a silent specter in the hazy light. Then, with a fierce, burning passion in his eyes, he'd give his verdict. "Git up and come at me again! If you aren't feeling it in your bones, you aren't learnin'!"
Gideon would rise, a grim set to his jaw, the ache in his muscles a constant reminder of his inadequacy. But with each fall, something new was being forged. Not just skill, but resilience. He wasn't just swinging a sword anymore; he was finding the warrior he would need to become when the real war came to the Southern Marches.
The raw burn in his muscles never faded. Even as he ate his meals in the keep's great hall, surrounded by the murmur of servants, Gideon could feel the constant ache in his bones, a dull reminder of his failures. He would slip out before dawn, the air still crisp with the cold of the night, to practice his footwork, the thud of his boots on the packed earth the only sound. He learned to pivot, to feint, to use his immense size not just as a battering ram, but as a strategic advantage. It was a tedious, agonizing process, a slow death to his old, reckless ways. He was learning to be a man who thought before he struck, and every moment of deliberation felt like a betrayal of his own instincts.
One morning, as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he saw Bart standing at the edge of the yard. His mentor said nothing, only watched. When Gideon finished his routine, Bart gave a short, sharp nod, his mouth a thin line. "Good," he grunted, a single word that carried more weight than any lecture. It was the only praise Gideon had ever received from the man, and it fueled his fire more than any threat. He knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that this was the only lesson that mattered.
A month passed in a steady rhythm of sweat and silence. By day, Gideon and Bart were a clanging, dust-caked whirlwind in the training yard. Bart had pushed him mercilessly, and in return, Gideon had thrown himself into the work, his young muscles hardening with every fall and every strike. By night, Gideon reluctantly sat in his father's study, the scent of old parchment replacing the smell of steel, as Duke Gavin attempted to teach him the dry, tedious lessons of "duking". He was a son of two worlds: the brutal, honest one of the training yard and the complex, quiet one of the keep.

One damp afternoon, as Gideon was running a final drill, a frantic sound cut through the air. A courier, his horse lathered in sweat, galloped into the keep's yard and dismounted with a clatter of worn armor. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear.

The man was immediately ushered into the Duke's solar. Bart and Gideon followed, sensing the urgency.

"What is it?" Duke Gavin demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"My Duke... from the east," the courier stammered, catching his breath. "The Duchy of Stonefist... they've crossed the border. They've seized the pass to the River of Whispers. It's an invasion."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. The quiet life of the keep, the tension between a father and son, the lessons of diplomacy—it all vanished in a heartbeat. The world was now only war.

Before Duke Gavin could even speak, both Gideon and Bart stepped forward. "I'll go, Pa," Gideon said, the restlessness in his soul finally given a purpose. The lessons he had hated now suddenly made sense.

"The boy is ready," Bart said, his haunted blue eyes now shining with a grim, familiar light. "We will defend the border."

And just like that, it began. The Southern Skirmishes were no longer a distant rumor, but a thunderous reality crashing upon their doorstep. The lessons were over. Now, it was time for the final exam.

The air was heavy, humid, and smelled of dry earth and pine needles. A nervous sweat plastered the tunic to Gideon's back, a feeling that had nothing to do with the summer heat and everything to do with the grim silence of the woods. He was fifteen, a bundle of restless energy and raw strength, but for the first time in his life, he was truly afraid. A month of relentless training with Bart had turned him from a clumsy brawler into a competent fighter, but as they moved deeper into the woods, the thought of a real fight with real stakes made his stomach churn.
Their reconnaissance party was small—just a dozen men, with Bart and Gideon at the head of the formation. They were tasked with scouting the forward line of the invading army, a force from the Duchy of Stonefist that had been a silent threat for a generation. Now they were a very real and present danger. Bart moved like a shadow, his haunted blue eyes scanning every rock and thicket. He carried a broadsword at his hip, its hilt worn smooth with use. The man was the weapon.
"Stay sharp, Gidi," Bart said, his voice a low rumble. "This isn't a sparring match."
Gideon, clutching the hilt of his broadsword, Sunderer, nodded. He could feel the weight of his father's trust, and the expectations of the men behind him. They were a mix of weathered veterans and terrified recruits, and they were looking to him, the Duke’s son, for reassurance.


The ambush came without warning. A flurry of arrows tore through the leaves, and two men went down with sharp, gurgling cries. A war cry, harsh and guttural, erupted from the woods ahead, and a dozen men from the Duchy of Stonefist surged from the underbrush.
Gideon’s mind went blank. He charged, a hot surge of reckless courage taking over. But the dream was over, replaced by a visceral, terrifying reality. The first soldier he met dodged Gideon’s overconfident swing and thrust at his unarmored side. Gideon backpedaled frantically, his mind a panicked mess.
A man went down beside him with a sickening wet thud. Gideon’s stomach lurched, but there was no time for nausea. Just as a large man with a battle axe was about to follow up, a silent blur of motion tore past Gideon.
With a terrible, fluid grace, Bart’s broadsword found a gap in the man’s armor and then another. The sight of the sudden, chaotic carnage and the scent of blood and burning earth seemed to ignite something cold and terrible in Bart's eyes. He was not fighting for the Southern Marches; he was fighting a battle he had already lost, the battle he had fled north to prevent. His strikes carried the silent, furious conviction of a man seeking penance.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. The men were quiet, their faces pale. Bart put a hand on his shoulder, a rare, uncharacteristic gesture. His haunted blue eyes met Gideon's.
"That was your first taste, lad. You’re lucky it wasn’t your last. You're a mountain, but you're blind. There's a reason we fight, Gidi, and it's not always for the glory you imagine. Now let's see to the wounded."
Gideon, still dazed, nodded. The fighting was over, but the lessons had just begun.

It was while tending to the wounded—the air thick with the smell of scorched earth and fear—that Gideon saw him. Standing guard over the camp's rough-hewn perimeter was a warrior who seemed carved from mountain rock. He had long, wheat-blond hair that was perpetually wind-blown and startlingly icy blue eyes, the color of a winter sky over a frozen lake. He wasn't merely muscular; he was built like a castle wall, his shoulders massive, his stance unyielding. His weapon wasn't the usual sword or spear, but an enormous, heavy mallet, the head of blackened iron resting casually on his shoulder as if it were a walking stick.

The man watched Gideon work, a subtle, measuring curiosity in his gaze. When Gideon finally stood up, wiping soot from his face, the giant warrior sauntered over.

"Heard you held a line when everyone else was running," he said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble, surprisingly calm for a man of his build. The icy eyes held a knowing grin, one that said he’d seen things too. "The name’s Burchard. Let's see if you can handle something bigger than a butter knife, because I certainly can't."

Gideon, already drawn to the man's sheer presence and lack of pretense, laughed out loud.

They hit it off instantly. Burchard had a simple, pragmatic view of the world: if it could be fixed with a solid blow, it was fixed. He spoke in short, direct sentences, preferring action to words, and possessed a dry, unshakeable confidence that Gideon recognized as armor.

Within the hour, Bart had them squaring off. Gideon, with his broadsword, Sunderer, was all kinetic energy, a berserker fueled by rage and desperation. He was fire, unpredictable and hot. Burchard, however, was earth. He met Gideon's wild swings with the measured, crushing force of his mallet. He didn't dance or leap; he planted his feet, absorbed the shock, and delivered slow, inevitable swings that forced Gideon to move or be pulverized. He fought with the discipline and weight of his namesake, "Strong as a Castle."

Bart drilled both of them relentlessly. Burchard’s strength was incredible, but his sheer mass made him susceptible to fatigue. At one point, during a grueling hammer-and-chase sequence designed to test endurance, Burchard’s grip slipped. The mallet spun wildly away, skittering across the dirt. Bart was in his face instantly, his voice a dangerous, low snarl that cut through the noise of the camp.

"The enemy doesn't stop because you're tired, Burchard! You drop your weapon, the line breaks! The line breaks!" Bart thundered, the lecture aimed at both boys. Gideon immediately took up the lesson, realizing his reckless abandon was just as dangerous as Burchard's momentary fatigue. Burchard, for his part, didn't argue or protest; he simply retrieved his weapon, his jaw set, a new understanding etched in his blue eyes.

Later, sitting by a meager fire, the two exchanged crude, whispered tales. Burchard, surprisingly, was a masterful exaggerator when he chose to speak, his stories focusing on the ridiculous—a clumsy fight against a runaway boar, a spectacular fall off a short fence, and his attempts to charm an older tavern wench that ended in him getting hit with a tray. It was an instant camaraderie forged in steel and absurdity—two teenage boys finding solace and fast friendship in the terror of the woods. Gideon knew he was still a boy, too green and too loud, but now he had Burchard beside him, a fellow lunatic and a steady wall of muscle, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he felt a little less alone.

The leaves on the great elms and oaks of the Southern Marches had begun to turn, a final, brilliant burst of gold and scarlet before the long cold. The air, once thick with humid heat, was now crisp and carried the scent of woodsmoke from the campfires. The nature of the war had changed, too. The frantic, bloody skirmishes of summer had given way to the grueling, monotonous reality of a siege. The enemy forces from the Duchy of Stonefist had retreated, fortifying themselves in a long-abandoned border keep nestled in the foothills. The structure, aptly named Blackstone, was a grim fortress of dark rock and jagged towers, an unyielding fist of stone that now blocked the path to the River of Whispers.

For Gideon, the change was a test of a different kind. He had grown since his first battle, his boyish bravado replaced by a quiet, determined focus. He found himself growing more and more frustrated with the endless waiting. This wasn't the heroic war of his imagination; it was an exercise in boredom and logistics. He missed the brutal simplicity of a head-on charge.

One afternoon, he found Bart calmly inspecting a trebuchet’s ropes. Beside Bart, the massive figure of Burchard—long blond hair falling over his shoulders, his icy blue eyes narrowed in boredom—was scraping dried mud from his equally massive mallet.

"Why don't they just come out and fight?" Gideon asked, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "We've been here a week."

Burchard finally looked up, his movements stiff and deliberate. "Because they're rats, Gidi. They just wait to starve out, and they'll take us down with the boredom. I didn't travel a thousand miles to dig ditches. I came to break things." He hammered the head of the mallet against the dirt. "I came to be 'Strong as a Castle,' not to sit outside one."



Bart, still focused on a knot, grunted. "They're losing a war, not a tourney. It's a different kind of bravery, Gidi. Being a man of war isn't just about swinging your sword."

"But it feels like we're not doing anything," Gideon insisted.

"Every day they spend inside those walls, they eat a day's worth of food and use up a day's worth of water," Bart explained. "Every minute you and Burchard spend on watch, they spend in fear of the moment you'll breach the gate. This war is fought with time as much as with steel." He finally turned. "And you, boy, are learning the patience of a true warrior."

Gideon nodded slowly, the lesson hitting home, though he knew Burchard wasn't sold. He went back to inspecting the siege lines, his hands calloused from digging. He was no longer just a strong boy with a broadsword. He was part of a larger machine.

The wind howled through the siege camp that night, rattling the canvas of the tents and carrying with it the distant, mournful cry of a wolf. Gideon sat near the fire, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, staring into the flames. Beside him, Burchard meticulously sharpened a small spike on the end of his mallet handle.

"The quiet is worse than the noise," Burchard murmured, without looking up. "I can feel the cold setting into my bones faster when I'm not moving. It's an insult."

Gideon watched a young soldier struggle to light a pipe with trembling fingers. "He's seen no battle, but he's already broken."

"He's not broken," Burchard corrected, the icy edge back in his voice. "He's hollowed. This place drains the fire right out of you, which is exactly what they want. They want us to quit, Gidi."

Bart joined them, his haunted blue eyes reflecting the flicker of light. "They’ll try something soon. Desperation makes men bold."

"Good," Burchard said, the first genuine excitement in his voice all week. "Let them be bold. I'd rather be tired from fighting than tired from waiting."

Gideon nodded. He could feel it too—that tension coiling like a spring. He rose from the fire and looked out toward Blackstone Keep. He knew he’d be ready. The waiting had taught him that much.

Tonight, the fire burned, and Gideon stood watch—not for glory, but for the men who still believed in him, and for the strong, silent castle of a friend, ready to break something.


Winter arrived with a brutal finality. Snow buried the camp, and a biting wind cut through the men’s meager cloaks like a blade. The siege was no longer a matter of strategy; it was a test of endurance against the elements. The men were a grim, quiet lot, their breath freezing in the air as they huddled around campfires that offered little warmth. It was in this bone-aching cold that the true enemy revealed itself: hunger.

For two days, the supply wagons had not arrived. Then a third day passed. The last of the salted meat was gone, and they were down to their final ration—the hardtack. A dry, tasteless biscuit that had to be hammered with a rock to be broken, it offered little more than a promise of calories. The men chewed the flint-like wafers in grim silence, their stomachs cramping with every painful, unfulfilled bite.

On the second day without food, the quiet began to break. A soldier from the Southern Marches leaned over to his friend. "I'm telling you, the fat cook from the kitchens back home would be looking pretty good right about now."

Burchard, his massive frame and long blond hair making him the most visible target of the cold, chimed in, his icy blue eyes glinting with grim humor. "I weigh less than my mallet right now. If I die, Gidi, strip the flesh from my bones. At least I'll serve a purpose."

“You're too stringy. I hear Bart’s tough as an old boot. I reckon he’d be chewy,” another man quipped.



Bart himself simply grunted, his eyes fixed on the snow-caked trail, his expression unreadable. He seemed immune to both the cold and the hunger, a man made of stone.

But by the morning of the third day, the jokes had died. The men were hollow-eyed and weak. Burchard, the "Strong as a Castle," looked gaunt, the raw power draining from his face and leaving his icy blue eyes dull. The cold had ceased to matter as much as the sharp, empty ache in their bellies. The camaraderie had been replaced by a tense, desperate silence.

Gideon, who had always been a voracious eater, felt his own strength begin to ebb away. His muscles, which had seemed so powerful in the summer, now felt thin and useless. He watched the men, their faces gaunt, and for the first time, he understood a new kind of terror. This was not a quick, glorious end; it was a slow, degrading one.


Just as the sun began to set, a shout tore through the silence. "Wagons!" It was a word whispered like a prayer. The men, despite their weakness, scrambled to their feet. And then, at the top of the pass, they appeared: a train of supply wagons, piled high with casks of salted beef, sacks of grain, and barrels of ale. The drivers were exhausted and frostbitten, but they had made it. The relief was a palpable thing, a collective sigh of a thousand men whose lives had just been given back to them.

Gideon looked at Bart, who, for the first time since the war began, let out a slow, heavy breath. The tension in his shoulders seemed to melt away. Gideon felt his own fear and the shame of his earlier recklessness fade. He had learned a new kind of courage here, a quiet resilience forged not by swinging his broadsword, but by simply enduring. He had seen the depths to which men could sink, and the heights of loyalty that kept them from falling. The winter had broken, and now, so would the siege.

The camp erupted in motion as the wagons rolled in, but it was not the chaos of celebration—it was the slow, reverent shuffle of men too weak to cheer. Hands reached out not with greed, but with trembling gratitude. Gideon and Burchard worked side-by-side, helping to unload the barrels, their fingers stiff with cold, their breath fogging in the fading light. He watched as Bart oversaw the distribution, his voice low and firm, ensuring the wounded were fed first, the youngest next. There was no ceremony, no speeches. Just the quiet, sacred act of survival.

That night, the fires burned brighter. The scent of roasting meat filled the air, and for the first time in days, laughter returned—not the brittle, desperate kind, but real laughter, warm and human. Gideon sat with his back against a supply crate, chewing slowly, savoring every bite. He looked around at the men—gaunt, frostbitten, but alive—and felt something shift inside him. This wasn’t the war he had imagined, but it was the war that had made him. Not through glory, but through grit. Not through triumph, but through endurance. And as the stars blinked into the winter sky, he knew the siege would end not with a charge, but with the quiet strength of men who refused to die, shoulder-to-shoulder with men like Burchard.


The great thaw arrived with a muddy, powerful rush. The snow that had held the land in a bitter embrace began to melt, turning the siege camp into a sea of mud and ice. But the men of the Southern Marches, now full from the replenished supply lines, felt their spirits rise with the temperature. The grim endurance of the winter had been a test, and they had passed. It was time for the final exam.

Bart’s plan was simple and brutally effective. The melting snow had weakened the frozen earth around the keep’s foundation, making it vulnerable to a concentrated attack from a siege tower. A final charge would be made, the fate of the war resting on its success.

Gideon, now a hardened veteran of sixteen, felt none of the fear he had in his first battle. It had been replaced by a focused, weary anger. He was no longer a boy playing at war. He was a man fighting to go home. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Bart at the head of the assault, his broadsword, Sunderer, no longer a toy but a trusted extension of his will. Beside him stood Burchard, his massive mallet resting on his shoulder like a shield, the berserker's icy blue eyes finally alight with the savage joy of imminent battle.

"Remember the lessons," Bart said, his voice a low growl, looking directly at his two best pupils. “Don’t look for glory. Look for a way home.”

The order was given. The final assault on the keep began, a thundering chaos of men and steel. The Duchy of Stonefist fought with the desperation of men trapped with no escape. But their hunger and the long winter had left them weak, and the Southern Marches forces, now well-fed and rested, had a fire in their eyes.

Gideon fought with a grim, methodical efficiency. He moved in tandem with Burchard, their training paying off in a devastating rhythm. Burchard’s mallet acted as a battering ram, delivering The Shatter—a wide, crushing blow that splintered shields and knocked groups of enemies off balance. Then, Gideon’s Sunderer followed instantly with The Shear, targeting the now-exposed weak points with cunning precision.



A man from Stonefist, a veteran with a scarred face, lunged at Gideon, and the fight was a perfect echo of his training. Gideon let the man come at him, sidestepping the blow and using his opponent's momentum against him, just as Bart had taught him. The man fell, and Gideon stood over him, winded but whole. He looked over to Bart, who was fighting in a similar fashion, a perfect display of brutal, efficient combat. Bart's haunted blue eyes flickered to Gideon for a moment, and Gideon saw a flicker of pride in their depths—a quiet acknowledgment of a lesson learned and a test passed.

The final charge was a roar of triumph. They breached the walls and fought their way to the main keep. By the time the sun set, the last of the enemy banners had fallen. The Southern Marches was free. The next morning, the smell of fresh, clean mud and new growth filled the air. The war was over. The keep was silent, its dark stone now a testament to their victory.


Gideon stood at the edge of the pass overlooking the now-peaceful River of Whispers. He was no longer a boy, and the world had changed around him. The Southern Skirmishes had forged him. He had seen death, felt desperation, and learned the value of patience. He was returning to his father's keep no longer as an unproven boy, but as a man who had earned the right to be called a warrior.

As he turned from the river, the wind carried the scent of thawed earth and distant pine. Behind him, the men of the Southern Marches were already dismantling the siege towers, laughing and shouting with the kind of joy that only comes after surviving something that should have killed them.

Bart was waiting for him near the fire, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Burchard was beside him, not polishing his mallet, but using its butt end to hammer a loose tent peg for a younger soldier.

Bart didn’t speak, but when Gideon sat beside them, the silence between the three men was companionable. They had fought, endured, and survived. There would be other wars, other lessons. But for now, the fire crackled, the thaw continued, and the world—just for a moment—felt like it might be kind again.


The estate of the Southern Marches stood unmarred by the war, a silent sentinel of strength and security while the fighting raged far to the east. The great hall was filled once again with the hum of servants and courtiers, a testament to the peace that had been won. But in the stable yard, there was only quiet resolution.
Gideon, no longer in his muddy battlefield leathers but a clean, if ill-fitting, tunic, stood by the stone wall. Across from him stood Bartholomew, his meager belongings packed onto the back of his chestnut charger. Next to Bart, leaning on his massive iron mallet, was Burchard. His icy blue eyes were set in a rare expression of stillness, watching the distant northern sky.
Gideon looked between the two of them, the grim mentor and the giant friend. "My father, the Duke, has asked me to make you both an offer. Bart, you'd be the new master-at-arms here, training the garrison. A fine home, a clean bed, a life without mud." He turned to Burchard. "Burchard, I'll be named the new Duke soon. I need a Captain of the Guard. A man with a mallet, built like a castle wall, to stand beside me."
Bart shook his head slowly. "That is generous, Gidi. More than generous." His eyes fixed on a distant point. "But a life of comfort is a cage. We are men built for war, not for peace. This estate is not our home. It never was."

Burchard shifted the mallet on his shoulder, the metal scraping against the stone. He looked at Bart, a flash of shared, unspoken history passing between them.
"The Duke's path runs through this estate," Burchard rumbled, his voice low. "And he'll do well here. But the old man and I have a different road to travel."
Bart nodded, confirming the pact. "He'll ride with me. The road of ash and cinders needs a knife for the hunt, and a wall for the defense." 

He finally looked at Gideon, his expression softening just a fraction. "You have a life to build here, Gidi. A future to protect. We have a debt to repay, chasing down shadows in the North."
Gideon felt a surge of emotion, a mix of profound sadness and respect. He knew there was no changing their minds. "Then... may the road rise to meet you both. I hope to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Castle Wall and the old man again, when the ghosts are finally put to rest."
Bart offered a sharp, rare smile. "Aye."
Burchard slapped his mallet against the ground, the sound echoing through the quiet yard. "Aye."
Bart spurred his chestnut charger and rode out, heading north. Burchard followed instantly, his massive frame striding out after Bart, the black iron of his mallet catching the light one last time before the two figures were nothing more than dust motes on the road. Gideon was left standing alone in the sudden, profound quiet of the Southern Marches.


Gideon found his father a changed man. The war, which he had followed through nervous dispatches and grim reports, had taken a toll on him that time and distance could not fix. He sat behind his great oak desk, a weary shadow of the man who had overseen the duchy's affairs.

He had summoned Gideon to his study. The boy who had charged into battle with reckless abandon was gone, replaced by a man whose eyes held a quiet, hardened confidence that spoke of the battlefield. The months of fighting and the long, cold winter had matured Gideon beyond his sixteen years. He stood before his father, not as a defiant boy, but as a seasoned soldier.

“Sit,” Gavin said, his voice softer than Gideon had ever heard it. He gestured to the chair across from him, the same chair that Gideon had so often avoided. “We need to talk about the future.”

Gideon sat, his gaze falling to the parchments on the desk. He expected a reprimand or a lecture. Instead, his father began to speak, his voice filled with a weary honesty.

“The war was close,” the Duke said, his gaze distant. “The reports were grim. But I heard stories… stories of a fierce warrior, a man of iron who held the line. I knew it was you, my son.” He looked at Gideon, his expression one of profound respect. “Bart taught you more with a sword than any tutor could have with a thousand books. You are a warrior. And I saw that great friend of yours, that Burchard... the man’s a force of nature."

Gideon shifted, uncomfortable with the praise. He had only been doing what he had to.



“This duchy needs a warrior at its head,” Gavin continued, his voice gaining a new kind of strength. “Not a scholar. Not a man who sits in a study. The Duchy of Stonefist may be defeated, but the world is not at peace. I’m tired, son. My battles were with ledgers and treaties, not with blades. Your battles, I fear, have just begun.”

He slowly pushed a stack of official documents across the desk. On top lay the ducal signet ring. Gideon stared at it, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I am retiring,” Duke Gavin said, his voice firm and final. “I am handing the title and all responsibilities over to you. The people of the Southern Marches have seen what you and your friend did out there. They need your strength. They need their war hero.”

Gideon was speechless. The life he had so deliberately avoided was now being given to him. He was no longer just the son of a Duke. He was the Duke.


The courtyard rang with Gideon’s laughter, bold and booming, as he spun his broadsword in a theatrical arc that made the stablehands cheer. He was a veteran of the Southern Skirmishes, and louder than ever. The Duke of Disaster had returned to Riverrun with swagger in his step and stories on his tongue—half of them true, all of them glorious.
Garth stood at the edge of the yard, wrapped in a cloak too big for his frame, his face pale but determined. He had only recently gained the strength to walk without trembling, to lift a practice blade without collapsing. For years, he had been the boy in the sickroom, the one Gavin rarely spoke of, the one Gideon barely noticed. But now he was upright. Now he was ready.
Their father, Duke Gavin, watched from the stone steps with his usual cold detachment. “Let the boy learn,” he said, nodding toward the ring. 

Gideon turned, grinning. “You sure you want this, little lord?” he called, loud enough for the retainers to chuckle.
Garth didn’t answer. He stepped into the ring, spear in hand, eyes locked on his brother.
The match lasted seconds.

Garth lunged, clumsy but earnest. Gideon sidestepped, disarmed him, and swept his legs in one brutal motion. Garth hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. The courtyard erupted in laughter. Gideon offered a hand, still grinning. “Lesson one: don’t challenge a real warrior unless you’ve got a death wish and a better tailor.”
Garth slapped the hand away.
Gavin turned without a word and walked back into the house.


That night, Garth vanished.
No note. No trail. Just an open window and a silence that stretched for decades.
Gideon searched. Not immediately—he assumed it was a tantrum. But when the hours turned to days, and the days to weeks, he rode out himself. He asked questions. He followed rumors. He cursed himself in quiet moments, wondering if the joke had gone too far.
Gavin never spoke of it again.
But Gideon did. Not in words, but in the way he looked twice at every dark-haired boy in a crowd. In the way he paused before retelling the sparring match. In the way he stopped laughing when someone mentioned brothers.

He kept the spear. Not out of guilt, but out of ritual. It hung in the armory beside Sunderer, untouched, unpolished, a relic of the moment everything changed. Servants whispered about it. Pages asked why it was there. Gideon never answered.

Duke Gideon sat at his long table in the sunlit dining hall of his family's huge estate. Before him was a huge plate of thick, juicy sausages, sizzling with fat, upon which he chowed down relentlessly before shouting, "MORE!" The sound echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling. Between bites, he gulped down fresh, cold ale from a tankard that seemed too large for a normal man. It was a simple pleasure, but a great one. Ah! This was the life!

'I wonder what Cres's up to right now. I miss the guy. Haven't seen him in over a year. I think I'll send him an invite. I'll take him a-whorin' in Riverrun 'n we can eat Sky Painters. It'll be fun,' he thought, the idea bringing a wide, roguish smile to his face.

After dinner came an endless dessert of honey cakes, so sweet they made his teeth ache in the best way possible, all washed down by more ale.

After dessert, Gideon was slumped over in his highbacked armchair before his great hearth. The huge, crackling fire threw a warm, golden light across the dining hall, and Gideon felt the pleasant fog of overindulgence settling in. His eyelids were growing heavy and his head kept nodding forward as sleep began to fog his mind. His drowsing was rudely interrupted by a servant slamming the door open.

"Yer lordship! Yer lordship!" the servant cried, his face pale and his chest heaving with exertion.

"Huh? Wha?" Gideon blinked, his mind struggling to pull itself from the depths of sleep.

"The bone walkers are comin' from the north!" the servant cried frantically, his voice cracking with fear.

The sleep was instantly gone, replaced by a mixture of excitement and resolve that made his blood sing. He jumped to his feet, knocking over the empty tankard with a loud clatter. The moment he had been waiting for had come at last.

"So those bony bastards have come to Riverrun at last! Have the stablehands saddle up Midnight Runner and have a page fetch Sunderer! Duke Gideon will show all invaders what Riverrun's made of!" Gideon boasted, his voice booming with a confidence that made the servants in the hall stand up straighter.

"Yes, milord!" the servant said, turning and running off.

'Poor Cres's missin' all the action, all holed up in Grimstone!' Gideon thought with a flash of genuine pity as he went to the armory to be fitted for battle.

The armory was a chaos of noise and motion. Gideon’s personal armorer, a stocky man named Borin, scrambled to fasten the heavy leather and steel plates onto his Duke. Gideon was a flurry of questions and boasts, his excitement overflowing. He strapped on his leather gauntlets, then buckled the enormous broadsword Sunderer to his back, the sheer weight of the weapon a comfortable burden. The page returned with a helmet, its face guard polished to a gleam. Gideon snatched it from the page and strapped it on, the feeling of the cold steel a final, exhilarating promise of the coming battle.

He strode out to the stables. Midnight Runner was a massive black charger, his hooves the size of dinner plates, his nostrils flared at the scent of fear in the air. The stablehands were a whirlwind of activity, strapping on the saddle and bridle. Gideon's squire, a nervous boy of twelve, handed him a shield emblazoned with the Duke's crest—a roaring stag. Gideon took the shield and with a single, powerful motion, mounted his great horse. The moment he was in the saddle, he was no longer just the boisterous Duke; he was a warrior on his way to battle. With a thunderous roar, he spurred Midnight Runner forward, out of the gates and into the growing twilight. The clatter of hooves on stone was his war cry. The Bone Walkers were coming. And so was Duke Gideon.

Gideon rode out into the streets, the thunder of Midnight Runner's hooves echoing off the stone buildings. He ignored the terrified faces peering from the windows and focused on the scene ahead. The last rays of the setting sun painted the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange, but in the distance, a growing line of crimson lights burned against the twilight. His eyes narrowed, the thrill of battle running through his veins, the familiar weight of Sunderer on his back a promise of glory.

"Gidi!" he heard a familiar voice call, a deep baritone that cut through the noise of the street.

Gideon looked over and saw a huge, burly man with a thick mane of long brown hair and a full brown beard riding up to him. The man's face was grim and determined, a stark contrast to Gideon's manic excitement.

"Bart!!! What're ya doin' here?!" Gideon asked, his grin widening. His former unit commander had been a legend, a man as tough as he was loyal.

"Where those bony bastards go, I follow!" Bart declared, his eyes fixed on the distant red lights. There was a cold, vengeful fire in his gaze that Gideon, in his excitement, misinterpreted as pure battle-lust. "Care for a hand?"

"From you? Always!" grinned Gideon, holding out his hand, which Bart clasped in a warrior's greeting. Their hands met with a powerful slap, a gesture of shared experience and mutual respect.

"We can take 'em!" declared Bart, his voice a low growl.

"Aye!" shouted Gideon. "Let's go!"

Gideon and Bart spurred their steeds forward, riding shoulder to shoulder. They were joined by a few of the bolder villagers, who had armed themselves with anything they could find: gleaming scythes, heavy pitchforks, and sputtering torches that cast a flickering light on their terrified but resolved faces. They rode out of the town gates and onto the open plains. The air grew colder with every step, and the red lights in the distance pulsed with a malevolent rhythm, a silent, terrifying army waiting for them.

Gideon rode into the horde with a roar that was more joy than terror. He was the thunder and the lightning, and Midnight Runner was the storm. His broadsword, Sunderer, a blur of motion, met bone with a shattering, sickening crack. He felt the Osteomorts crumble beneath the sheer force of his blows, their dry, rattling bodies scattering into dust. He fought with a reckless abandon that was both terrifying and magnificent. Bart fought with a grim efficiency, his own blade moving with a swift, deadly precision that spoke of a different kind of war.

The villagers, emboldened by their Duke's raw power, charged in behind them. Their torches lit up the battlefield, turning the cold plains into a chaotic scene of fire and shadow. But for every Bone Walker they struck down, two more rose to take its place. They were a relentless tide, a silent, inexorable flood that threatened to overwhelm them. Gideon, in the thrill of the moment, had not considered the sheer numbers.

Bart, seeing their inevitable doom, grabbed Gideon's shoulder. "Back to the gates, Gidi! We can't fight them out here!"

Gideon snapped out of his battle lust. He looked at the endless sea of red lights and the weary faces of the townsfolk. Bart was right. They had to fall back. He let out a final, furious cry and wheeled Midnight Runner around. The defenders retreated, a small, weary band of mortals against an endless army of bone and death. They made it to the town gates just in time, slamming them shut behind them. They had won the first battle, but the war was just beginning.

Gideon looked out at the unending horde of red lights in the darkness. The thrill of battle was gone, replaced by a grim resolve. He had done his part. Now, the battle of Riverrun had truly begun. 
The Bone Walkers came like a plague wind—dry, rattling, and endless. Their red lights burned in the dusk like cursed stars, gleaming from hollow sockets as they poured through Riverrun’s open gates. The sound of them was maddening: the clatter of bone on stone, the hiss of ancient steel, the whisper of death without breath.
Gideon stood atop the battlements, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Below, the White Tide—a literal sea of clattering bone and rusted iron—pressed against the gates of Riverrun. He looked to Bart, who was calmly sharpening a blade, and then to Burchard, who stood like a silent monolith with his mallet resting on his shoulder. They were prepared to die, but they weren't prepared for the sky to open up.
A piercing, musical shriek echoed from the clouds. Gideon looked up, his jaw dropping. "Wings," he whispered. "Gold and silver wings!"
Dozens of griffons were diving through the overcast sky, their talons extended, screaming a challenge that seemed to shake the very foundations of the keep. For one heartbeat, a roar of triumph rose from the exhausted defenders of Riverrun. They thought the heavens had sent a miracle.
Then, the shadows fell.
From the dark crags of the nearby bluffs, a synchronized swarm of Rocs erupted. These were not noble creatures; they were massive, ancient buzzards with mangy feathers and eyes the color of sulfur. They didn't fly; they plummeted like falling boulders, slamming into the griffon ranks with mid-air collisions that sounded like thunderclaps.
"Damn!" Gideon screamed, slamming his fist against the stone merlon.
The miracle died in the air. The sky above Riverrun became a churning vortex of a dogfight. Golden feathers drifted down like falling leaves, stained with crimson. The Rocs were larger and more numerous, herding the griffons away from the city, keeping the griffons from ever reaching the ground.
Bart spat on the stone, his eyes never leaving the gate below. "Don't look up, boy," he growled, his voice pulling Gideon back from the spectacle. "The birds are busy. The dead are not. Eyes on the steel."
Gideon tore his gaze away from the tragedy in the clouds. He looked at the Osteomorts beginning to scale the walls, his grief curdling into a cold, hard knot of hatred. He looked at the Rocs one last time—vowing that if he survived the night, he would find a way to bring those giant buzzards down to earth.

He rode out to meet them with a snarl on his lips, his war cry rising above the din like a war drum. Midnight Runner thundered beneath him, hooves pounding the earth as if trying to outrun fate itself. As the first skeletal ranks met his blade, a sudden shadow flickered across the ground—a Roc banking low to keep a griffon pinned away from the walls. Gideon didn't look up, but the sharp, agonized shriek of a griffon above fueled the fury in his arm as Sunderer shattered a Bone-Walker's skull.
Beside him, Bart rode in silence, his eyes locked on the advancing horde. He was a grim sentinel, a man carved from war and shadow.
The first clash was glorious. Gideon led the charge, Sunderer a gleaming arc of steel that shattered bone and scattered limbs. The front ranks of the undead crumbled, and for a moment, the defenders felt the surge of hope.
“See, Bart! This is a simple defense!” Gideon roared, his grin wide, his blood singing.
Bart didn’t smile. His voice was low, steady. “They’re not tired, Gidi. They don’t feel pain.”
And then the Bone Walkers changed. They moved like water—silent, coordinated, relentless. Bony hands reached for the horses’ legs, clawing, pulling, dragging. The defenders faltered. The red lights were everywhere now. The Bone Walkers broke their line like twigs underfoot.
Gideon fought like a storm, but even he could feel the shift. The weight. The inevitability. Bart fought with him, his blade a scalpel of destruction, but for every Bone Walker they shattered, five more rose. The line was breaking. The cries of the townsfolk echoed through the narrow streets. Gideon felt the cold hand of despair grip his spine. This wasn’t a battle. It was a reckoning.
He looked to Bart, but the man’s face was carved from stone. Gideon gritted his teeth and raised Sunderer again. If this was the end, he would meet it standing.
Just as a solid phalanx of Osteomorts surged toward him, a tremendous sound—the sickening CRUNCH of bone shattering like dry wood—erupted behind the advancing line.

A figure of pure, destructive fury burst through the ranks, swinging an enormous mallet in a devastating, low arc. Burchard—long blond hair flying, icy blue eyes narrowed in berserker focus—was laying waste to the undead from behind.
"Where the hell'd you come from?!" Gideon yelled over the cacophony, his voice ragged with disbelief and sudden, electric hope.
"Just thought I'd drop in 'n lend you a hand!" Burchard roared back, taking down two more Osteomorts with a back-swing of his mallet before meeting Gideon’s gaze. "Looks like it's time for The Bone Breaker, Gidi!"
Gideon didn't need a formal order. The sight of his old friend, his "Strong as a Castle" ally, was the only rally he needed. He dropped his shoulder, spurred Midnight Runner forward, and met Burchard in the middle of the carnage, Sunderer poised to execute The Shear.
The reckoning was over. The counter-attack had begun.


The battle was a swirling maelstrom of steel and bone. The streets of Riverrun were a brutal battlefield, and the moans of the townsfolk echoed through the night. Gideon fought with the fury of a wild beast, his broadsword, Sunderer, a roaring whirlwind of steel and fury. He was surrounded, his back against a stone wall, fighting for every inch of ground. He could feel the cold hand of despair on his shoulder. They were losing.

But then, a cold, calculated fury replaced his desperation. He looked over and saw Bart, his face a mask of grim determination, holding off a small horde of Osteomorts with grim, efficient ferocity. Bart met his eyes, and with a series of quick, sharp movements, he gestured with his head toward the rooftops. The message was clear: they had to get off the ground.
Before they could execute the retreat, a monstrous, bone-jarring CRACK split the air. Burchard, his long blond hair a wild halo around his head, had appeared at Gideon’s side like a thunderclap. His giant mallet connected with the chest plate of a lead Osteomort, executing The Shatter with brutal precision. The skeleton exploded, fragments of bone shrapnel spraying, momentarily staggering the line of undead before them.
"Looks like the dance is on, Gidi!" Burchard roared, his icy blue eyes blazing. "Bone Breaker!"
Gideon grinned, a savage, blood-splattered smile. "You read my mind, you big lunatic! Now!"
As the stunned Bone Walkers tried to reform, Gideon plunged Sunderer low and fast, executing The Shear. His broadsword cut through the brittle leg joints of three more Osteomorts in a single, devastating sweep, sending their torsos crashing into the ranks behind them. The two-man assault tore a gaping hole in the enemy's formation.
With a unified roar, Gideon swung Sunderer in a wide arc, creating a moment of space. "To the roofs! Follow me!" he bellowed. He smashed a skeletal head with his shield and scrambled up a stone awning, then onto a low roof. As he reached the tiles, his boot slipped on a blood-slicked golden feather that had drifted down from the chaos in the clouds. He caught himself, glancing up for a split second to see a pair of Rocs tearing at a golden wing against the bruised purple of the twilight. He bared his teeth at the sky before turning back to the dead swarming the street below.
Bart followed with a swift, cat-like grace, Burchard clambering up behind them, his heavy mallet making surprisingly quick work of the climb. The townsfolk were a terrified, frantic mob behind them.
Left to their own devices, Midnight Runner and Bart’s horse did not flee. They were warhorses, and their masters' wills were their own. Midnight Runner, his black coat a terrifying shadow in the street, let out a furious neigh. He reared up, his forelegs lashing out, crushing the brittle bone of the Osteomorts that swarmed at his feet. He turned and used his powerful rear hooves to kick the skeletons to pieces, his movements a brutal, efficient whirlwind of muscle and fury. Bart’s horse fought just as valiantly, its hooves a blurring stampede of death that gave the humans a precious moment of cover.
From the rooftops, the tide of battle turned. The Osteomorts, a silent, mindless tide, were not built for climbing. They swarmed into the narrow streets of Riverrun below, their numbers now a liability. The humans, with a renewed sense of hope, rained down a hell of rocks and flaming arrows. They hurled furniture and pots and anything they could find onto the teeming masses of bone, turning the streets below into a graveyard of shattered skeletons.
Gideon fought with a terrifying new ferocity. He, Bart, and Burchard were the center of the storm, leaping from roof to roof, their weapons singing as they brought a terrifying brand of justice to the streets. The townsfolk, emboldened by their Duke's raw power, found new courage. They held the line, fighting back the swarming dead with a ferocity born of desperation. The battle turned into a bloody, close-quarters slugfest, with the living fighting from above, and the dead fighting from below.
The human counterattack was successful. With a final, furious charge, Gideon, Bart, and Burchard drove the remaining Bone Walkers back to the walls. The streets of Riverrun were silent, save for the groans of the wounded and the triumphant, panting breaths of the survivors. They had won the battle for the streets, but at a terrible cost. Gideon looked out at the unending horde of red lights in the darkness. They were still here, waiting. Their victory was a brief respite, not a final end. The battle for Riverrun had truly begun.
The silence after the counterattack was heavy, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the distant, ceaseless rattle of the Bone Walkers beyond the walls. Gideon, bruised but triumphant, leaned on Sunderer, his chest heaving. He exchanged a weary nod with Bart and Burchard, whose faces were grim masks. The victory had been theirs, for now.
But the reprieve was short-lived. A new, terrifying sound reached them from beyond the walls – a rhythmic scraping, followed by the dull thud of something heavy being launched. Then came the fire. The Bone Walkers were not using crude torches, but launching what appeared to be bundles of dried, oil-soaked straw, propelled by some unseen force. The first bundle sailed over the parapet, landing on a nearby stable roof. A moment later, a small, sickly flame licked at the dry thatch. Then another. And another.
"They're burning us out!" a villager shrieked, pointing to the growing plumes of smoke.
Gideon felt a surge of cold fury. "To the fires! Form lines with water buckets!" he roared, but before he could give another order, Bart's eyes fixed on the first skeletal figure to crest the wall after the projectile barrage—its vacant sockets and brittle jaw an emblem of the horrors that had destroyed his own home years ago.
The spirit of Shadowmourne descended.
Bart let out a sound that was not a roar, not a growl, but a choked, guttural sound of pure, consuming agony. The sight of the Osteomorts, the imminent threat of flames licking at another defenseless town, tore open the old wounds of his destroyed village.
The berserker rage consumed him entirely. His mind went utterly black, replaced by a single, incandescent drive to obliterate the living blight before him. He no longer saw enemies; he saw the murderers of his family.
Bart launched himself from the parapet, plunging into the mass of Osteomorts below. His movements were no longer quick and sharp; they were pure, terrifying elemental force. His blade became a blinding blur of unthinking, devastating power. He tore through the Bone Walkers like a human tornado, a whirlwind of steel and pure vengeance. The greatsword did not simply strike; it cleaved, shearing through bone joints, splintering ribcages, and turning stacks of white bone into clouds of dust.
He was a man possessed, his roars now a continuous, guttural scream of incandescent hatred and final, bloody revenge.

Even Gideon, accustomed to his own reckless bravado, was utterly astounded. He watched, momentarily paralyzed, as Bart carved a blood-soaked path deeper into the endless horde, a terrifying force of retribution.
Then, a guttural roar tore from Burchard's chest, a sound that seemed to rip from the deepest parts of the earth. His long blond hair seemed to bristle, and his icy blue eyes, normally so sharp, glazed over with a terrifying, unseeing intensity. The sight of Bart's cold, absolute rage, the smell of the flames—it was a call to his own primal nature.
As Burchard’s mallet crushed a dozen skulls with one swing, a thought—cold and lucid amid the battle-fever—flashed through his mind: Bart, the true Bone Breaker.
"They burn! We break!" Burchard bellowed, the words an animalistic challenge. With a thunderous roar, he launched himself after Bart, his massive mallet becoming a blur of bone-shattering force. He plunged into the thickest ranks of the Bone Walkers, mirroring Bart's fury with his own raw, unbridled berserker state. He wasn't fighting for Riverrun; he was fighting because the fire had woken something ancient and terrible within him, turning him into a force of elemental destruction. The two men—Bart, precise vengeance; Burchard, untamed primal rage—tore through the undead, twin storms against the tide.


Bart's furious rampage was a moment of terrifying, glorious fury, but it was not a turning point. It was a dying gasp in the face of an inexorable tide. For a few frantic moments, he was a living storm, a one-man war that shattered everything in his path. Burchard, lost in his own berserker fury, fought beside him, his massive mallet rising and falling with bone-shattering force. But a new sound arose from the darkness beyond the walls—a low, rhythmic scraping, the sound of a thousand shuffling feet. Reinforcements.
A new wave of Bone Walkers, larger and more numerous than the last, poured over the walls and through the battered gates. Their unholy red lights were a sea of malevolent fire, and they did not break their stride. The defenders, still reeling from the last counterattack, were caught completely off guard. Bart and Burchard, lost in their twin rages, were swallowed up by the horde, still fighting but lost to the overwhelming numbers.
The battle turned into a brutal, close-quarters slaughter. Gideon fought with a desperate ferocity, his shouts of "Hold the line!" turning into frantic cries of "Fall back! Fall back!" He used Sunderer to carve a path through the unending bony tide, his only goal to get his people to safety.
He fought his way to where he last saw his comrades. Bart, surrounded, the fury having left his eyes, was filled with grim, exhausted resignation. Burchard, too, was near-immobilized, his body a bulwark against the tide, his long blond hair matted with sweat and dust, the great mallet no longer moving. Gideon, with a handful of the bravest villagers, formed a small, desperate circle of defense, pushing backward, ever backward, through the heart of their home.
They were pushed all the way to the town square, their backs against the great bronze statue of the First Duke. They were the last line of defense, a small, weary band of mortals against an army that could not be killed. All hope was gone.
The Bone Walkers closed in, an unstoppable tide of unholy death. Their red lights glowed hellishly, casting long, dancing shadows. Rictus grins seemed to leer at them with mocking malice. Gideon, Bart, Burchard, and the last of the bravest villagers stood together, ready to die on their feet.
Suddenly, a strange tremor ran through the front ranks of the Bone Walkers. Their bodies shivered, a rattling, dry sound completely unlike their usual motion. The red lights in their eyes, the hellish glow that was the very mark of their malice, flickered. One by one, then in a wave, the lights were snuffed out. The rictus grins vanished into darkness. Their steel weapons clattered to the ground, and with a final, eerie rattle, the bone walkers dropped. They collapsed, a wave of bodies and armor becoming a pile of silent, unmoving bone.

High above, the shift was just as sudden. As the necromantic energy animating the horde below vanished, the Rocs—sensing their masters' defeat and having no further reason to bleed—simply broke off their attack and wheeled away toward the dark crags. But the griffons were not so quick to let the debt go unpaid. With piercing shrieks of fury, the golden-winged survivors dove after the retreating buzzards, harrying them into the distance in a storm of angry retribution.

No one could grasp what had just happened. For a long, stunned moment, there was a profound, unholy silence. The battle was over. There was no victory cry, no triumphant roar, only the sound of heavy breathing and the terrified sobs of the townspeople.
Gideon stood in the middle of the dust-covered square, his broadsword still raised, his mind reeling. He looked at the vast piles of bones, at the quiet where there had been an army, and then he looked at Bart. He looked at Burchard, whose icy blue eyes were now wide and clear, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps as the adrenaline of the berserker state bled away. Gideon was a lout, but he knew with bone-deep certainty that this was not a victory he had earned.
Then, a voice cried out from the crowd, "Our Duke has saved us! Duke Gideon! The gods have blessed his sword!" The cheers began in a trickle and then became a flood. "The Duke! The Duke! Long live the Duke!" a woman shrieked, and soon the town square was filled with joyful, exhausted cries. "And the Commander! Thank you, Bartholomew! Thank you! And the great Burchard!" another voice shouted, and soon all three names were part of the chorus.
Gideon stood in the middle of the square, his mind reeling. But he had no time to ponder the truth. His wonder was instantly cleared, replaced by the cold, hard clarity of his duty. He was the Duke of the Southern Marches, and Riverrun was his. "Pages! To the wounded! Get healers to the square! Organize the men!" he barked, his voice filled with a new, sober authority. He looked at Bart and Burchard, a silent understanding passing between them: they had won, for now. Now came the grim task of cleanup.

The morning light was pale and thin, casting long shadows across the square. The battle was over, but the ghosts of it remained. Bone dust clung to the cobblestones like frost, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched stone and blood. The cheers had long since faded, replaced by the quiet shuffle of healers, the low moans of the wounded, and the grim rhythm of the dead being carried away.
He knelt beside a wounded guard, pressing a cloth to the man’s shoulder, when he felt a presence behind him. He turned and saw Bart—his old commander, his teacher, his myth—standing tall. Beside Bart was Burchard, the massive berserker leaning heavily on his mallet, his icy blue eyes clear and steady. They both looked like men who had fought their way out of hell.
Bart said nothing of the battle.
“Bart,” Gideon said, his voice low with gratitude. “You saved my life. You saved our town.”
Bart nodded, his gaze distant. “The Bone Walkers… they carry a sickness. Not in flesh. In memory. A cold that follows them.”
Gideon nodded. He had felt it too. The chill that lingered in the bones. “Stay,” he said. “Join my personal guard. There’s a place for a man like you here. Burchard, you too. We need our own Strong Castle here.”
Bart finally turned to Gideon. “My path is not here, Gidi. Riverrun is cleansed. But the world is full of ghosts.” Bart reached into the pouch on his hip, pulling out a small, heavy object. He held it out to Gideon. It was a stone carving of a badger, a fierce, miniature warrior carved from dark river rock, its eyes set with two tiny chips of agate.

“The badger doesn't quit,” Bart said, his voice quiet, his sky-blue eyes finally locking onto Gideon's. “It digs deep, fights dirty, and defends its sett to the last breath. Keep it. Remember why you fight, Gidi, and dig in.”
Gideon took the cold stone carving, his soot-stained fingers closing around the surprisingly detailed form.
Bart stepped away, his movements slow but certain. Burchard shouldered his mallet and turned as well, his long blond hair catching the pale morning light. Bart mounted his horse.
Gideon watched them, the badger carving heavy in his palm, a terrible finality settling in his gut. They were leaving him to the tedious, necessary work of governing.
Bart didn’t look back. Burchard gave a short, hard nod—a final acknowledgment of their bond—and followed.
They rode out of Riverrun as the sun crested the eastern hills. They were not saviors. They were revenants and wanderers. Ghosts in the morning light.

Later that day, Gideon walked the perimeter of the square alone. He paused at the statue of the First Duke, now streaked with soot and bone dust. He placed a hand on its bronze shoulder and whispered, “We held.”
He looked down at the literal mountain of remains clogging the square. His gaze settled on a skull that sat atop the pile, its jaw missing but its hollow sockets still seemingly mocking him with the memory of that unnatural red glow. With a grunt of effort, he reached down and snatched it up by the brow. The bone was cold—a lingering chill that seeped through his leather gauntlets—but he didn't let go. He held it up to the pale morning light, tracing the jagged crack where Sunderer had delivered the final blow. It would make a fine conversation piece, a grim testament to the night the sky failed and the ground held. He tucked the relic under his arm with a roguish smirk, vowing to keep it as a trophy for his next visit to Grimstone Keep. He could already imagine the look on Acreseus’s face when he presented such a prize to his friend.

That night, he sat at his desk and opened a fresh ledger. At the top, he wrote:
    Bart—last seen at dawn, riding north.
Beneath it, he wrote:
    Burchard—Last seen at dawn, riding west.
He left the rest blank. Not for lack of detail. But because some stories weren’t finished. Some ghosts didn’t fade. They rode on. Gideon, the Duke, stayed. He built. 

Fin