The winds howl over the parapets and the moon hangs heavy and far overhead. You warm your chilled hands by a sentry fire and Boris flashes a kind smirk at you. “Told you, should’ve worn that heavy cloak your uncle brought last time he came round.” Boris has been in your father’s service longer than you’ve been alive, and he’s the one who’s been trusted not only to train you but to keep you safe. He continues on. “You know, you really needn’t even been up here. Though the men surely appreciate your face passing amongst theirs.” You are about to respond, declaring that one day this keep will be yours and you should know it’s defenses better than anyone else, when a cry of anguish rises from just beyond the torchlight outside the walls. The cry sends ice through your veins, you’d know that voice anywhere. You peer out into the darkness and then, almost as if on cue, a being steps into the light.

The Fleshling stands easily eight feet tall, it’s face a snarling fusion of man and goat, it’s legs bent in the wrong direction and ended in hooves. In one massive hand it clutches a notched and rusted blade, the flat steel akin to a butchers knife in width and a bastard sword in length, and it’s other hand holds the squirming form of your younger brother. Eran’s nude flesh is nearly dyed red with the rivulets of blood that flow freely down him, chunks of him torn off by both blade and teeth. The Fleshling coughs out a hoarse laugh and lift your brother’s body between them, as a shield against any arrow attacks. It’s voice, deep and guttural, calls out. “Gold and meat and this runt lives. No gold and meat, we cook him and you pick his bones from our shit.”

Your body tenses, your brother was meant to arrive by carriage tomorrow… in your mother’s company, and before you can react you feel Boris’ steel grip on your shoulder. “I know.” His words are like ice, all the former warmth gone. “But running out there without a plan won’t save either of them.” By the time you manage to tear your eyes away from the thing waving your brother around like a shank of meat, a half dozen of your fathers guards have gathered around you and look to you and Boris for answers. “It’s obviously a trap, they’re hiding in the shadows and wanting us to rush out to save the young prince. Or send out tribute and slaughter the men carrying it and make off with the offering and your brother.” Boris releases his grip on your shoulder and waves one of the men to go and wake your father. “The decision is yours… if we delay and wait for your father it may be too late.”