The dawn mist had lifted from the camp of Northhold, but the darkness that the old man Merlock's words had left in Alaric's soul did not dissipate. The knight stood before a tarnished bronze mirror inside his tent, examining a face etched not by age, but by nights spent awake, standing guard over the dreams of kings unworthy of such loyalty.
His solitude was broken by the clatter of a sword against armor at the tent's entrance. A young soldier entered, his voice trembling as he spoke:
"Sir Alaric, Commander Borick summons your presence to the main command tent… It's urgent and cannot be delayed."
Alaric nodded without uttering a single word. He picked up his heavy helm and made his way towards the heart of the camp. There, the scent of wine mingled with the smell of old maps. Borick sat behind a massive table, casting looks of contempt upon his subordinates as if distributing stale bread to prisoners.
Borick spoke in a tone laced with vanity:
"Finally, we are graced with your presence, oh man of long silences. Step forward. We have a mission befitting only those of your… 'fortitude'."
Alaric took a step forward and asked in a calm, melodious voice:
"What are the kingdom's orders this time, Commander?"
Borick let out a dry, mocking laugh, then drove his dagger into a map at a region called the "Valley of Bones." He explained:
"You will lead the Sixth Battalion in a suicidal… pardon me, a 'strategic' offensive at dawn. You and your blade will be the first to meet the northern tribes' spears. We want them preoccupied with your corpses so that we can outflank them."
Silence fell over the tent. Alaric knew this was not a military strategy; it was a death sentence wrapped in official orders. Alaric muttered, his eyes fixed on the commander's:
"You are sending five hundred men to be bait so you can save face before the king? This is not war. This is a massacre."
Borick sprang to his feet, his voice roaring with fury:
"How dare you presume to teach me the art of war! You are nothing but a tool. A blade does not ask the hand that wields it why it strikes. Carry out your orders, or prepare to face the guillotine for high treason."
Alaric left the tent, rage boiling in his veins like molten lava. As he made his way through the dust, he was stopped by a gentle hand reaching out to touch his armored arm. It was Elinor.
"I heard what transpired inside," Elinor whispered, her eyes gleaming with an anxiety she could not hide. "He is killing you, Alaric… He wants to be rid of your name, which has begun to echo on the soldiers' lips."
The knight replied in a tone overcome with despair:
"Perhaps death on the battlefield is nobler than living at the mercy of tyrants, Elinor. This may be our final meeting."
She abruptly blocked his path, pulling him toward a secluded corner behind the tents. She then produced from within her robes a small metal box engraved with strange symbols. In a hushed voice, she said:
"Not necessarily. Merlock visited me before he left. He left this for you. He said, 'The Ash King needs skin that steel cannot pierce.'"
Alaric opened the box, and a timeless fragrance wafted out from a black substance resembling ink, yet it moved as if it were a living thing. He asked in astonishment:
"What dark sorcery is this? Do you want me to sell my soul for a fleeting victory?"
Elinor retorted, gripping his hand firmly:
"The soul is lost either way. Either it is lost beneath the hooves of Borick's horses, or it is lost to become a king that changes this wretched world. The choice is yours."
Alaric sat on a cold rock, baring his left arm where an old scar stood out. Elinor began dipping a metal quill into the black substance. With the first prick into his skin, he did not scream, but his eyes bulged and his breathing became labored. He felt as if ice were flowing through his veins, then suddenly turning into scorching fire.
Elinor spoke as she continued to draw with meticulous precision:
"This tattoo is not mere adornment; it is a blood oath. It will grant you the strength to endure, but it will exact its price every time you draw your sword. Are you ready for the cost?"
Alaric spoke through clenched teeth, shattered by the intensity of the pain:
"We paid the price long ago, Elinor… Finish it. I want to feel the power that makes kings tremble."
With the first thread of dawn light, the tattoo was complete, coiling around his arm like a black serpent feeding on his shadow. Alaric stood, feeling a strange weight in his hand, as if his sword had become a part of his body. The knight who had entered the tent was not the same one who emerged.
He looked toward the horizon, where the war drums began to sound in the distance, and whispered to himself in a chilling murmur:
"Today, I will not die as bait… Today, I will be born as a nightmare."