A Seemingly Ordinary Knight

Early dawn, with the sky still cloaked in darkness, the sound of metal clashing resonated through the chilly air. Sparks flew as swords met shields, and the sound of heavy breathing and grunts filled the battlefield. "Onward!" came a stern, commanding voice—Sir Francis, leading his men through the chaos.

The scene unfolded in an open field, where the light of the moon cast an eerie glow on the combatants. A skirmish was underway against a group of goblins, creature's half the height of an average human but far more agile. Their green skin glistened with sweat, and they bared sharp fangs as they snarled and swung crude, jagged weapons. Each goblin wore a patchwork of rusted armour, some with broken helmets or mismatched pieces of leather, and wielded large, crude swords or spiked clubs. They moved quickly, darting around like shadows in the dim light, their beady eyes filled with malice and cunning.

But Sir Francis was swifter. He darted through their ranks with the ease of a seasoned warrior. His sword, gleaming even in the faint light, flashed through the air with deadly precision. A goblin lunged at him, snarling as it swung a jagged blade towards his midsection. Sir Francis deflected the strike effortlessly, his movements graceful yet powerful. With a quick pivot, he brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, slicing through the goblin's defences and dropping it to the ground.

Another goblin, shrieking in rage, tried to flank him, its small, wiry frame moving with deceptive speed. But Sir Francis anticipated the attack. He sidestepped, parried the goblin's clumsy strike, and countered with a swift thrust to the creature's chest. The goblin's eyes widened in shock as it crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, the soldiers followed his lead, engaging the goblins with a mixture of fear and determination. Archers at the rear let loose a volley of arrows, the shafts whistling through the air before finding their marks. Goblins screamed and fell, their small bodies writhing in pain.

Despite their small stature and crude appearance, the goblins were a formidable enemy. They swarmed like ants, using their numbers to overwhelm the human soldiers. They were cunning, too, employing hit-and-run tactics, feinting and darting in to strike at vulnerable points.

But Sir Francis was relentless. His eyes, sharp and focused, missed nothing, even in the dim light. He moved like a dancer, his sword a blur of steel as he struck down goblin after goblin. Three more fell to his blade in quick succession, their bodies collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

"Keep pushing forward!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle.

The soldiers, emboldened by his prowess, surged ahead, hacking and slashing at the goblins with renewed vigor. The field was a chaotic mess of clashing weapons and desperate cries, but slowly, the humans began to gain the upper hand, their disciplined formations and superior weaponry pushing back the frenzied goblin assault.

As the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, the goblins, realizing they were outmatched, started to retreat. Their high-pitched screeches echoed through the air as they fled, scattering back towards the safety of the nearby forest.

Sir Francis lowered his sword, breathing heavily but still alert. His eyes scanned the field, ensuring there were no more immediate threats. The soldiers around him panted heavily, some leaning on their swords for support, but they were alive and victorious. For now, at least, they had won this skirmish.

He turned to his men, raising his voice above the sounds of the dying battle. "Secure the perimeter. Make sure none of them double back. We need to hold this ground." The soldiers nodded, their expressions grim but determined, and set about fortifying their positions.

Morning light washed over the battlefield, casting long shadows across the ground strewn with the bodies of goblins and the occasional fallen soldier. A few soldiers moved about, their faces grim as they cleared the area, gathering the dead and tending to the wounded. The stench of blood and sweat hung in the air, mingling with the damp scent of the early dawn.

Not far from the scene, Sir Francis sat on a large rock, his sword resting across his knees as he observed the aftermath. His expression was distant, thoughtful, as he watched his men at work. The events of the morning were still fresh in his mind, and he knew this victory, while significant, was only a small part of a much larger conflict.

The sound of hooves clopping on the ground came from behind him, drawing his attention. A low whistle followed, "Whew," a familiar voice said, tinged with a note of admiration. Sir Francis didn't turn around, but his shoulders tensed slightly.

"Quite a feat," the voice continued. It was Sir William, still mounted on his horse, looking over the battlefield with an appreciative nod.

Sir Francis acknowledged his presence with a slight tilt of his head but kept his gaze forward. "What are you doing here? I thought you were at the castle," he asked, his voice neutral.

"I was," Sir William replied, his tone casual but with a hint of urgency. He shifted slightly in his saddle. "I'm here because of an errand, and I do need some assistance."

Sir Francis's brow lifted, curiosity piqued.

...

A group of men on horseback, riding in a coordinated formation with Sir Francis and Sir William at the lead. They moved along a country road lined with bushes and trees, the path itself uneven and dotted with patches of grass and the occasional puddle.

"So, there was a rat!" Sir Francis said sternly.

Sir William nodded slightly. "We believe there were at least a few servants doing the witches' bidding."

"I knew it!" Sir Francis responded aggressively. "The castle's magical defenses couldn't have been compromised so easily by those wretched witches."

Sir William nodded again. "However, we still haven't confirmed whether they acted willingly or if the witches charmed them into it."

"So, did you manage to catch them?" Sir Francis asked.

"Unfortunately, only one," Sir William replied. "He was trapped inside the royal treasury room after the magic circle recovered."

With his eyebrow raised, Sir Francis asked, "What was he doing in the treasury room?"

Sir William shrugged nonchalantly. "I have no idea. That's for Sir Gedeon to find out."

They continued along the road, the horses' hooves clopping steadily on the uneven ground. Eventually, they arrived at a small, secluded house, situated far from the defense post and the rest of the village. The men dismounted, their expressions serious and alert.

"This is it," Sir William said, his voice steady.

"This house belongs to one of the servants and according to the information Sir Gedeon managed to extract from the one we captured, they used this place as a gathering spot before the attack," he added.

Sir Francis observed the surroundings keenly. It was an old, weathered cottage, not too big, not too small—likely home to a small family.

The house was covered in foliage, and trees and shrubs surrounded it. It looked unassuming, like any other peasant's home in the countryside.

"Sir, the door's unlocked," one of the soldiers reported.

They entered cautiously, leaving a few men to guard the perimeter. Inside, the air was dusty and filled with the smell of dampness and decay. Spiderwebs clung to the corners, and everything was covered in a thin layer of grime. Despite the disrepair, the items were neatly placed, giving it the appearance of a typical peasant's home.

Suddenly, a loud sneeze echoed through the room. Everyone jumped, startled.

"Sorry," Sir Francis muttered with a sheepish grin, rubbing his nose. He quickly composed himself, and they resumed their search. The house seemed ordinary, with nothing out of place.

Sir William turned his gaze toward a young woman standing behind him. She was a young apprentice mage, with long, flowing golden hair that curled softly at the ends. Her amber eyes shimmered with a mixture of excitement and focus. She wore a dark blue cloak adorned with golden accents, a symbol of her apprentice status. A small, delicate hat rested atop her head, casting a shadow over her serene face.

Understanding her role, she nodded slightly and raised her slender wand. With a graceful motion, she swung it forward and cast a spell. A streak of light, greenish in color, flowed from the tip of her wand. The light moved gracefully through the room before stopping beneath the floor, behind a small wooden cupboard.

The small wooden cupboard was carefully moved aside, revealing a hidden trap door in the wooden floor. Sir William knelt down and gently lifted the door, revealing a small compartment. Inside, there were several papers and a rolled-up map. He took out the map and spread it on the ground, examining it closely.

"Hmm," he murmured. "This is a map of the castle interior." The map displayed detailed outlines of the castle's structure, including several hidden entrances, passageways, and markings indicating which locations to avoid and where the guards were stationed.

Sir William then turned his attention to the other papers. One of them contained a drawing of a complex magical symbol, depicted in a circular pattern with intricate runes and geometric shapes.

"Hmm, I can't read this," Sir Francis admitted, frowning at the cryptic symbol.

The young female mage stepped forward, her eyes brightening with recognition. "It's a magic binding sigil," she explained. "It's used to block or weaken magic. This one here," she pointed to the center of the symbol, "is just a part of it. They've drawn several variations of the sigil, but none are complete."

Sir William raised an eyebrow. "Incomplete?"

She nodded, her gaze focused on the papers. "Yes, they probably used this as practice. A completed sigil would be much more effective. But this one," she said, pointing to another symbol, "is flawed. They might have been trying to perfect it."

A soldier poked his head through the door and said urgently, "Sir, you might want to take a look at this." Sir William and Sir Francis exchanged puzzled glances before following the soldier outside. He led them a few meters behind the house, past some bushes and small trees. There, on the ground, was a scorched mark in the shape of an intricate pattern.

Sir William's eyes widened slightly. "It looks like a magic circle," he said, his voice tense with concern.

The young mage crouched down, carefully tracing the edges of the burnt markings with her fingers. Her eyes narrowed in concentration.

"More precisely," she said, her voice steady, "it's a summoning magic circle."

"What?" Sir Francis said, his tone incredulous. He glanced at Sir William, who seemed equally taken aback.

"Are you certain?" Sir William asked, needing confirmation.

"Yes," the mage interrupted, standing up and dusting off her hands. "I'm absolutely sure. There's no mistake about it. This is definitely a summoning circle, and it's not a simple one."

The weight of her words sank in. Magic was a common enough element in Rothrosia, but summoning magic was a different matter altogether. It was considered one of the highest forms of magic, something that required immense skill and knowledge. Even the Royal Mage, Angus, had struggled to master it completely. Whatever—or whoever—had created this circle was a being with far more advanced knowledge in magic than most.

Back at the encampment...

Sir William dismounted his horse and turned to Sir Francis. "I'll report these findings to Sir Gedeon," he said, his tone serious but resolute.

"Very well," Sir Francis responded with a nod of acknowledgment.

Sir William hesitated for a moment, then added, "One more thing. I'm leaving her with you for the time being." He gestured toward the young mage. "Although she's still an apprentice, she's proven to be quite resourceful. Besides, I need her to examine the residence further, where the perpetrators had gathered."

The young mage stepped forward, her expression earnest. She gave a small bow and introduced herself.

"My name is Sylvia. I'm at your service, Sir Francis." Her voice was clear and confident.

Sir Francis offered a small smile, appreciating her company.

Sir William, now back on his horse, gave Sylvia a nod of approval. "I shall be going, then," he said, but before he could spur his horse forward, Sylvia handed him a piece of parchment.

"It's a sketch of the summoning magic circle we found," she explained. "I managed to decipher some of it, but there's more I couldn't understand. Please give it to the Royal Mage Angus. He might be able to figure out the rest."

Sir William took the paper carefully, tucking the sketch securely into his satchel. "I'll see that Angus gets this."

With that, he turned his horse around, raising one hand in a casual wave over his shoulder—a familiar gesture, his usual way of saying goodbye. Sir Francis watched as Sir William rode off, his figure gradually shrinking into the distance.

Still standing outside the camp, Sir Francis shifted his stance slightly, his expression thoughtful.

"Actually, Sylvia," he began, "I have a request for you."

Sylvia's eyes focused on him, her expression serious and attentive.

"There's a matter that needs your expertise," he explained. "A few villagers came seeking aid not long ago. They said their crops have been dying without any clear reason. Goblins may steal crops, but they don't destroy them like this. I'm worried that there might be dark forces at play."

Sylvia's face set with determination. "I'll see to it," she said confidently, her voice resolute.

Seeing the fire in her eyes, a sense of relief washed over Sir Francis. Despite her young age and apprentice status, she carried herself with a maturity and confidence that was rare. He offered her a warm smile and nodded.