Chapter 8: The March of Fire and Flesh

 Chapter 8: The March of Fire and Flesh

Dawn cracked blood-red over the eastern horizon as Sir Salty rode at the head of the greatest allied force Virellia had assembled in a century. The ground shook beneath the thunder of hoofbeats, the clash of pike and shield, the creak of ballistas, and the rattle of wagonloads full of cannonballs and black powder.

Behind him, a tide of warriors spilled across the old road to Cairnwood:

—Lancers, armour shining like dragon-scale, thundered on warhorses with lances lowered and pennants snapping in the wind.

—Archers, faces calm, eyes sharp, marched with longbows slung across their backs, their quivers full of silver-fletched arrows blessed by the forest druids.

—Crossbowmen, their machines cranked and loaded, stomped in lockstep, ready to unleash bolts that could pierce ogre bone.

—And at the rear, a siege train of war machines, including great cannons loaded with fresh iron shot and handled by the black-clad engineers of the Iron Guild.

Sir Salty’s axe hung across his back, humming faintly—as if it too knew war was near.

But for now, he rode in quiet satisfaction, his mind still caught in the embers of the night before.

In the warmth of the Citadel's royal bedchamber, Queen Sarah and Queen Michelle had finally claimed what had burned between them for years.

It had been no delicate affair—it was passion forged in fire and blood. They had taken him together, bodies pressed and wrapped around his, laughter and gasps echoing through marble halls.

Queen Sarah rode him like a warrior on horseback, her golden locks falling over her eyes, her breath hot and commanding. Queen Michelle, all curves and mischief, kissed his scars and whispered promises of more to come. They shared him in firelight, again and again, until no strength remained in any of them.

And yet, as glorious as it was, Salty knew it was a farewell born of war. There were no guarantees they’d meet again.

That sobering thought returned as the wind shifted—and the horses reared.

From above, a high, keening screech split the sky.

“Chios!” someone screamed.

Salty’s gaze snapped upward.

From the shattered clouds, winged nightmares descended—black-scaled Chios demons, their wings vast and their eyes aflame. They rode the wind like vultures, vomiting gouts of green fire and poison smoke.

“Shields! Archers, form up!” Salty bellowed, drawing his axe.

The army reacted like a machine.

Crossbows snapped skyward, bolts zipping through the air and finding demon flesh. Screams rang out as men burned, the front lines broken by crashing talons. One cannon wagon exploded in a spray of black powder as a Chios beast slammed into it, igniting fire and tearing men apart.

Salty charged forward, leaping from his horse to swing his axe in a wide arc, cleaving into the flank of a descending demon. Its wings tore with a shriek, and it crashed into the pikes of the men-at-arms waiting below.

More demons swooped down.

Sarah’s voice rang from behind. She and Michelle, clad in black battle-leathers, had ridden into the heart of the chaos.

“You promised me a war, Salty!” Sarah shouted, loosing a silver arrow into a demon’s eye.

“And you promised me fire!” Michelle roared, hurling a flask of alchemist’s oil that ignited midair, turning a beast into a screaming comet.

Together, they fought back-to-back with Salty, blades flashing, faces alight with fury and desire.

Bit by bit, the ambush broke. The last demon, a massive brute with six arms and a twisted crown of bone, dived at Salty with a shriek of hatred—but it was too late.

Salty threw his axe, spinning end-over-end, and sank it straight into the demon’s skull, where it lodged with a sickening crunch. The thing dropped dead mid-flight, smashing into the earth in a crater of flame and bone.

Silence returned, save for the groans of the wounded and the crackle of burning brush.

The Virellian army regrouped—bloodied, but far from broken.

Salty retrieved his axe, wiping it clean as Sarah approached.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, blood streaked on her cheek, “you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

He chuckled, exhaustion clinging to him. “This is only the beginning.”

Michelle joined them, her chest rising and falling beneath her plated corset. “Then let’s end this… together.”

They looked westward, where the main human host waited, and beyond that, the Black Hills, where the armies of Orcs, Goblins, Ogres, and worse were already on the move.

Sir Salty raised his axe high.

“March. For the Realm. For vengeance. For love.”

The banners surged forward once more.

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