Knights of Mischief

The night stretched endlessly above, a sea of stars casting a faint glow over the vast savannas land. Beyond lay a shadowy forest, shrouded in thick fog that clung close to the ground yet rose high, almost as if reaching toward the heavenly sky above. The fog pulsed like a living tide, shifting in and out as though it were a living entity, beckoning and warning in equal measure.

High above, a delicate ring of dust circled the heavenly body, faintly shimmering against the darkness, adding an otherworldly beauty to those who failed to grasp its significance.

Beneath the beautify of the night, a lone knight with a long white hair and golden eyes stood at the edge of large and tall basalt rock, her figure wrapped in a fine layer of chainmail that glinted faintly under the night sky. Her face was partially concealed by a half-helm, and She held a thin, gleaming blade—elegant yet deadly. Her eyes fixed on the scene before her, utterly mesmerized by the beauty of the world.

Just then, she felt a presence approach from behind—a heavy footstep of someone clad in armor.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" the person interrupted her quiet awe.

The woman turned, still half-lost in the view, nodding as she took in the stranger's face—a rugged, mysterious visage etched with the wisdom of countless battles. He was an olderman, bald with graying goatee, his expression as unreadable as the night surrounding them. His form was concealed by a hooded cape that draped over most of his full suit of armor.

"The fog is shifting wildly, Uncle," she said, her voice tinged with unease as her eyes fixed on the churning mist. "This is a sign of a dark omen" her eyes gaze remained locked on the fog.

Her uncle chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You fret too much, little one," he said, his golden eyes gleaming beneath the hood revealing a menacing smile.

"I fear for what's to come—for our kingdom, our city." Her head tilted upward, her gaze drifting to the night sky.

"The war was just ended, and yet you worry about another" The old man sighed. "Nature wrath isn't something we can stop, so why burden yourself with it?"

She said nothing, her silence filled with a tension he could feel but choose to ignore.

The old man sighed heavily, shaking his head, then raised his hand and bellowed, "Rejoice, for we have triumphed! A decisive victory! Now, lets us return to our home as heroes!" His voice echoed through the stillness of the night.

For a brief period, silence hung in the air, as if the very night itself was holding its breath. Then—a thunderous cheer erupted from behind him, shaking the stillness of the night. Hundreds of foot solders, their armor battered but steadfast, marched forward unison, torches in hand. Among them were knights, proudly bearing the flag of their House, its emblem illuminated by the flickering flames.

As the soldier clear the battlefield and marched toward their beloved city, the grim truth of their triumph loomed heavy.

The battlefield, once filled with clashing steel and might of magic, now bore the horrifying marks of the carnage had taken place. The ground was littered with the bodies of the fallen—hundreds, perhaps thousands—soldiers sprawled in pools of blood, some dead, other writhing in their final moments.

The Earth itself seemed to bear witness to the destruction wrought by war. The ground had split open in jagged cracks, some large enough to swallow men whole. Thorn-like spikes of earth jutted from the battlefield, while small craters dotted across the battlefield. The air crackled with tiny sparks of lightning, carrying a sharp metallic scent. The sight of such devastation turned the triumph into something far darker.

Beyond the battlefield, a brilliant beam of light pierced the night sky, visible for miles around. It emanated from the top of a towering spire, standing as a beacon near the Limelight City, the capital of the House of Sheen.

Within the wall of the city, people filled the streets, celebrating the return of their victories army. Yet, while many cheered, others mourned, honoring the heroes who had given their lives in the brutal conflict. The joy and sorrow mingled in the air, a bitter sweet testament to both victory and loss.

Among the crowd of people, a well-dressed boy rushed through, struggling to carry a large bag nearly half his height. He squeezed through clusters of people blocking his way, finally breaking free and arriving at a large metal gate leading to the 17th Street of Limelight City.

"17th Street," he muttered nervously, hesitating at the entrance.

Just as he stepped forward, a guard noticed him and blocked his path. Startled, the boy quickly held up an envelope, nearly as large as his head, and explained, "Sir, I'm here to deliver a letter."

The guard gaze settled on the envelope—silver with gold trim and sealed with the emblem of House of Sheen. Recognizing its importance, the guard knelt down to the boy's level, gently smoothing the boy hair and straightening his shirt.

"You should look a bit more presentable, lad, if you're delivering that letter," the guard said with a sad, almost melancholy smile. Then, with a nod, he instructed, "Now, go on."

The boy rushed through the gate, watched by the guards from a distance. He ran down the wide, empty street, his small figure standing out in the stillness of the night. People looking out from their homes, some in celebration of the recent victory, paused to watch the lone runner—a quiet contrast to the festivities unfolding around them.

The boy held one of the envelopes with the address that led him to the 17th street. With a quick glance at the row of house lining the street, he began counting, his eyes narrowing with each number. As he reached the end, he stopped in front of a building with a signboard that read Weaving Twig and Sculpt Store. Finally, he found the house he was looking for—the one marked on the envelope.

The storehouse had two floors, with a signboard that blocked most of the front windows on first floor.

The walls, though similar to the other houses on the street, were adorned with detailed designs. With strips of metal etched with runic symbols framing the corners. The same decorative metalwork adorned the door, making it clear that the owner of this storehouse was no ordinary person.

He stepped forward to the door and climbed a single step to reach it. He then knocked three times and waited for a response.

Knock Knock Knock

The chill of the night crept into the boy's bones, his body trembling now that his hurried pace had ceased. He wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing at his sleeves in a futile attempt to stay warm as he stood before the door, waiting for the resident to answer.

The boy shifted from foot to foot, his breath misting in the frigid air. He knocked again, this time louder and in rapid sequence, hoping the sound would carry through the think wooden door.

Knock Knock Knock Knock Knock

Finally, the faint shuffle of hurried footsteps came from within, followed by a sound of something dragging and scraping across the wooden floor. Shortly after came the metallic scrape of a bolt sliding back. As the door creaked open, it emitted a sharp squeak, the grinding of its metal hinges a testament to the door immense weight.

A soft humming came from behind the door as it swung open wider, revealing a small, disheveled girl with brown hair, dressed in a pink wrap, perched on a wooden stool in the doorway. Her curious green eyes fixed on him intently. Behind her, rows of neatly arranged shelves stood, reminiscent of a common store.

Without a word, she pulled a wooden toy from her pocket and began chewing on it, her gaze never leaving him. She remained on the stool, idly watching as he stood outside, shivering in the cold.

The boy cleared his throat, his words fumbling and shivering as he held up the silver-and-gold envelope. "I… I'm here to deliver this. From the house of Sheen."

The girl quickly snatches the envelop, jumped down from the stool, and darted back deeper into the store. Moments later, she returned, this time pulling an adult woman hand and leading her to the front door.

The woman, seemingly in working attire, followed the little girl with a warm, caring manner, her gaze fixed on the child. In her hand was the envelop that was stolen by the little girl earlier. When she reached the door, she turned her gaze to the boy, her curiosity turning to concern.

A shock of realization passed over her as she noticed the boy stood outside, trembling from the cold. "Oh, you poor thing," she said gently, her voice laced with sympathy.

Without hesitation, she moved swiftly to a nearby shelf, placing the envelop on top before finding and pulling down a thick, woven blanket. Returning to the boy, she draped it gently over his shoulders, tucking it snugly around him with care.

"Come, child. Warm yourself for a bit." The woman said softly, leading the boy further into the storehouse. She pulled over a stool—the same one the little girl had been standing on earlier. "Sit here," she instructed, her tone kind yet firm.

The girl, still clutching the wooden toy, watched with quiet curiosity, her eyes darting between the boy and the stool he sat on. Then, without warning, she growled at him annoyance, but he ignored her.

The boy shifted uncomfortably as he felt a faint tugging sensation at the legs of the stool. He glanced beside him and saw the girl was pulling at it with both hands, glaring up at him as if silently demanding her seat back.

The woman noticed the girl's behavior, "Kimmi, no!" she warned, with a tone gently, urging the child to stop bothering the boy. The little girl huffed, showing a defiance, she stomped her foot as she disappeared leaving the room behind.

"Apologies for her behavior," the woman said softly, a warm smile playing on her lips. "My daughter has a way of… doing things a little out of the ordinary. It's her way of trying to make friends." she chuckled lightly, the fondness in her voice clear.

Her gaze shifted to a small metal furnace siting just around the corner of the room, its bulky frame catching the faint glow of nearby lantern light. Without hesitation, she strode over, retrieved it, and placed it near the boy.

With a quick flick of her finger, a small spark crackled to life at its tip, and spoke, "Ignite!"

In an instant, the furnace roared to life with an unexpected burst of flames, sending a brief explosion of heat through the room. Embers scattered before settling into a steady glow, filling the space with warmth. The boy looked unbothered by the sudden explosion, as he was already used to it.

"Tell me, child, what's your name?" the woman asked, her tone gentle yet curious. "It's rather late to be delivering letters, isn't it?"

The boy shifted uncomfortably, casting his gaze downward for a moment before meeting her eyes. "I'm Tiphony Timber, ma'am... Our foreman insisted we deliver the letters," he explained hesitantly. "He said it was of the utmost importance."

The woman's gaze fell to the boy's bulging bag, still brimming with undelivered letters. "Are you planning to deliver them all tonight?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

The boy's eyes widened with surprise. "Oh, no, ma'am," he quickly reassured her, shaking his head. "I can deliver the rest tomorrow. I was ordered to mainly deliver special letter tonight." He looked down.

She looked at the boy kindly, her concern easing. "I see," she said with a sigh, her voice warm. "I do hope this is the last letter you need to deliver tonight, then."

The boy nodded eagerly, his face lighting up with relief. "Yes, ma'am, it is. This is the last one."

The woman's smile deepened. "Well then, I'm glad you're almost done. Go on, get some rest."

After a few minutes, the boy left the store, stepping out when he felt ready to face the cold. A smile tugged at his lips, warmth spreading through him as he thought of returning home. The woman watched as his silhouette faded in the distance, then slowly and quietly close the door.

The little girl returned back to the room, grabbed her stool, and sat on it. She watched her mother reach for the envelope on top of the shelf, her gaze fixed and curious. Tilting her head slightly, she continued to observe her mother.

The women opened the envelop to reveal a letter bearing the seal of the noble House of Sheen, Lords of Limelight City. The longer she held the letter, the more she felt fear creeping into her chest. Though she gripped by fear, she still forced herself to break the seal and began to read.

'The Duke of Cowrie has entrusted me to convey to you the profound sympathy of both his lordship and ladyship in this time of sorrow-'

As she read the letter, her eyes widened in disbelief, and her trembling hands barely managed to hold the letter steady. Each word seemed to strike her like a thunderclap, leaving her rooted in place.

 '-The one whose loss you now mourn fell in the noblest of causes, defending the ideals of Law and Order with unyielding valor. Knight-Sergeant Sir Edward Gustmill, has fallen on the battlefield. His sacrifice shall not be forgotten, and his name will live on the annals of our country's gratitude.'

The words on the page blurred as her pulse quickened, and the letter slipped from her trembling fingers. A chilling realization gripped her, tightening like a vice around her chest—her husband was dead.

The woman felt herself weakening, struggling to hold back her emotions. Her eyes found her daughter, still watching her with curious innocence. She moved closer to the girl, her heart heavy.

The little girl tossed her toy away to the floor and raised her arms, expecting her mother to scoop her up. Instead, the woman enveloped her in tight embrace, her body trembling with silent sobs. The girl, confused but calm, rested her small hand on her mother head, gently patting her as if to soothe her.

Yet, despite the tears, she felt no sorrow of her own—only the quiet, comforting rhythm of her hand on her mother head.