The King was far, far away. Beyond a reasonable doubt, he would not ever set foot within the colony, much less make the trek out into the frontiers of the war. No new agents of war. No new Knight Orders. Just free knights that had no home made their way out here to a chance at glory and honor. Maybe make a name for themselves, under contract for a decade or two and return to the motherland to serve a ‘real’ noble house.

Three months by sea to reach the colony. Another two months to reach the edges of this frontier to where they called home.

The words transformed him. Gone was the hesitation. His blood burned and raced in his body. He may be the disappointing son. But even the lowest of the Sterkhanders was greater than the rest. Warrior one and all regardless if they fell short of perfection.

Steel hinges groaned as Adrian pushed the barn doors apart. The door swung open to what could have been an apocalypse. Night had claimed the sky, yet hellfire transformed darkness into a grotesque mockery of day. Flames devoured the village buildings. Turning peaceful homes into pyres that spat amber sparks toward uncaring stars. A house collapsed on the far side of where he stood, unable to stand against the fire eating at its structure.

The village sprawled before him. A tableau of horror carved in the shadows as massive figures flitted through the buildings. Thatched roofs crackled as they burned. Burning straw rained onto the panicked forms below. Villagers. They fled in blind terror, staying in groups even though it would have done little to save them if they encountered an enemy.

The village's bones lay exposed in the firelight. Stone foundations supported the remnants of wooden walls. Now mostly collapsed into burning heaps. Dead horses sprawled beside their broken carts, contents scattered across muddy streets. Barns like his temporary sanctuary had been reduced to skeletal frames weeping smoke into the night sky.

Bodies of non-combatants and village militiamen littered the ground where they fell. Broken, ripped into pieces. Some cut in half, others in more parts that he was willing to count. Then the smell hit him. Like a hammer had been slammed onto his great-helm. The taste of ash and burning wood; acrid smog and smoke. A metallic reek of small streams of blood mixed with the malodorous stench of voided bowels, burnt hair, and charred flesh.

Adrian took a deep breath. He had expected to be puking, or at least scrunching his nose from the putrid smells, and yet, he felt a sense of comfort and recognition in them. They were the perfume of battle. Familiar to him as the morning dew of early training. An odd sense of belonging permeated in his chest. This was where he was himself the most. Not at his father’s court. Not under the judgemental gazes of his instructors and weapons masters. Not in the halls where he could only dream of being as great as the ancient Great-Helms. His forefathers.

Here, he could be Adrian Sterkhander without any reservation. A Mark-ed Knight.

His eyes roamed across the battlefield. The sounds of far off clashes echoed to him, but there were a few close by. To his right seven village militiamen fought a desperate encounter against three towering orcs. It was a losing proposition for them, average men attempting to stand tall against giants with rippling muscle and dense bones. Covered in rudimentary iron armor, exposing much of their green leathery skin, as much a source of defense as the armor itself.

They matched the knights in height, and his House's color, but they lacked greatly in martial abilities. Hence they made up for it with vast numbers.

Crude weapons rose and fell, smashing a militiaman to the side. The man was quick to rise to his feet again and dive at the Orcs. His spear barely did more than cause deep scratches. Maybe if they got lucky and pierced an eye, it would cause a difference in the long run. On the other hand, the Orcs’ weapons glistened red and stained by the lifeblood of the defenders. They laughed and toyed with them, like a cat playing with its prey.

To his left, two knights were locked in combat with another two orcs. One of the orcs stood a head taller than anyone else including Adrian, and yet it looked like they were being forcefully pressed back by the two knights that had come with him. Both knights wore the same armor and house color, swinging blades equally as monstrous as the one he had in his hands now.

It was only a matter of time before they gained victory against their foes. On the other hand, he could help the militiamen, at least delay until the other knights arrived. Where they can flank the remaining orcs. Then they could regroup with the rest of the knights and militiamen. Reestablish proper defensive fortifications and use their resources more properly. Adrian had stationed small groups of two or three knights at different parts of the village, with twenty or so militiamen at their sides. The rest of the village militia were in the center of the square protected by one knight.

In total, they were twelve knights made for savage war and nearly impossible to kill.

His tactical mind whirred unbidden at the thought of better tactics that could have been employed. How lives could have been saved if Adrian had been more careful and less of a glory hound. Trying his best to overshadow any bad talk about him instead of simply accomplishing the fundamentals and saving those he had been commanded to aid. The village well occupied defensible high ground, perfect for a last stand. Debris could be used to channel attackers. Building foundations created natural choke points that could turn numbers against the attackers. He forced these thoughts aside, the militia needed immediate aid, not strategic planning.

Adrian's first step nearly sent him sprawling. The ground was slick with wet mud, his heavy feet treacherously sinking with each stride. They left massive imprints, marking where his armor had been on this day. His recently recovered legs protested at the instability, but that they did not fail him. Even if it took conscious effort to move his behemoth frame.

Maybe I should have stayed in the barn for a bit longer…? He instantly banished the thought. The previous Adrian’s tendencies and quirks remained strong in him, even if he had control over the majority of it, it was just the minor amounts that forced his actions before any decision could be made by his mind that worried him. Would he end up doing something he would regret? He hoped not.

The orcs seemed to have noticed him approaching. They began to confer in a guttural language that sounded harsh to Adrian’s ears. In the background, a house that had been turned into a raging inferno, collapsed in a thunderous roar. Thick smog was belched across the battlefield, the winds driving the clouds of smoke further into the city. It reduced the already meager visibility into almost nothing. It made it even harder to see the dark hides of the Orcs, they absorbed almost no night.

Not that they tried to conceal themselves, shouting battle cries at the top of their lungs and announcing their arrivals with bone-chilling horn blares.. Even if they did, he doubted people wouldn’t notice a seven or eight foot behemoth of hulking muscle hiding behind a dainty light pole. Even with the help of a mark.

Then again, he was the Shadow Mark.