Part 1 - The Battle of the Lonely Boy
The Great Hall of the castle glowed with the warmth of the evening. Around the long oak table, the family feasted together: the father, the mother, and the seven siblings. Laughter, stories, and the echoes of old battles filled the chamber. The fire crackled in the hearth, while ancient weapons and shields hung like silent sentinels upon the walls.
The eighth child, young Christian, was not among them.
He was galloping far beyond the castle walls, his horse’s hooves striking the forest path with frantic speed. Evening had already surrendered to a deepening shroud of darkness. In a heartbeat, everything changed: a low-hanging branch grazed him, followed by a sudden, dull thud. The horse reared in terror. Christian was thrown, his head slamming against the hard earth, as his mount bolted and vanished into the night.
He lay there, motionless.
Late into the night, soldiers set out to find him. Their torches flickered through the woods as they called his name, but their cries went unanswered. The night had swallowed him whole.
Christian slowly drifted back to consciousness. His head throbbed with a rhythmic pulse. He raised a hand to his face, then looked down: his palm was stained crimson. In that moment, a sound pierced the silence.
A wolf.
Terror jolted the boy to his feet. He tried to run but stumbled, tripping over a cold, stiff shape-a human corpse. Beside the body lay two swords: black, short, yet forged with broad, heavy blades. The wolf lunged.
Christian acted on pure instinct.
He snatched both blades and struck in a single, fluid motion.
The wolf’s head tumbled to the earth.
At dawn, the soldiers returned to the castle. They reported to the Lord, Christian the Elder, that the young master was nowhere to be found. A heavy silence fell over the Great Hall.
Then, a cry rang out from the battlements:
- Open the gates!
The heavy gates creaked open. Young Christian stepped inside. A massive, severed wolf’s head hung from his back, and at his side hung the two short, black swords. His face was ghostly pale; his gaze had turned to stone.
His father watched him, grim-faced and stunned.
Before a word could be uttered, a dust-covered messenger arrived, breathless and screaming:
- My Lord! A message from the King. War is coming.
The air in the Great Hall turned to ice at the messenger’s words. Lord Christian the Elder did not hesitate; he dispatched carrier pigeons to five neighboring castles, summoning every knight to arms.
His wife, Katalin, pale and trembling, pleaded at the table: “Tell me, my Lord, what is written! Do not leave us in this agonizing silence!”
Lord Christian broke the red wax seal before them all and began to read:
“I call the Host of Mohács to war! Your oaths bind you: the Lion Empire has struck. They seek a new crown. More than five thousand soldiers have crossed the border, and they have murdered my wife, the Queen. March West to where our camp is set. In five days, we meet them in battle. – King Rob.”
“My Lord, what shall we do now?” – asked the generals.
“By tomorrow, gather every man capable of wielding a blade! At sunrise, we ride West to the King!” – Lord Christian commanded.
Meanwhile, within the opulent tent of the Lion Empire, King Denetor held a council. Seated there were his son, Young Denetor, his daughter, Lara, and his generals.
“When do we reach the West?” – the King inquired.
“Five days, sire. Our army is vast, and the march is slow,” – the commander replied.
Young Denetor slammed his fist onto the table: “Father, I must join the battle!”
“You are a fool, brother!” – Lara interjected, but their father silenced them.
“My son, you are the next King of this Empire. You cannot go to battle.”
The boy rose in a fit of rage and stormed out. Denetor then turned to his generals: “Our dinner and our meeting are finished. You may leave! Speed up the march!” – the King ordered, then his voice dropped to a whisper: “Lara, stay. I must speak with you.”
Lara remained.
“Five thousand men march West, but it may not be enough. I have spoken with the Wolves; they will stand with us if you wed Young Talin, the heir to the Wolf Throne.”
“But Father...!”
“I will not argue! It must be done, my daughter. You may go.”
Lara left quickly, her heart burning with rage.
The following day, Lord Christian gathered his 800 riders and set out with his two sons: Young Levente and Young Christian. Levente was taller and stronger—a natural-born warrior—while everyone deemed Christian too skinny and weak for war.
Initially, their father did not wish to bring his youngest, believing him unfit for combat, but the sight of the severed wolf’s head had changed his mind. Still, his order was strict: Christian was to observe, not to fight.
After three grueling days of riding—through forests, over hills, and across rivers—they reached King Rob’s camp.
“Greetings, my King!” – Lord Christian called from his mount. The King was deep in strategy with his generals.
“Greetings, Lord Christian!” – King Rob replied. “The news is grim. The enemy numbers over five thousand. We are barely three thousand strong. We are hopelessly outnumbered.”
“Before blood drench the earth, we must parley with them,” – Lord Christian suggested.
“So be it,” – the King sighed. “The scouts report they arrive tomorrow. At dawn, we ride with the leaders to negotiate. Now, rest. We will need every ounce of strength.”
The night was silent, but the air already vibrated with the metallic tang of the coming slaughter. In the darkness, Christian’s fingers brushed the hilts of his two black swords. He did not know it yet, but tomorrow’s dawn would not bring peace—it would bring the beginning of a blood-soaked legend.
