The Devouring Knight

Outside the city walls, the golden eagles swept across the night sky, their sharp eyes scanning the ground below.

One of them dipped lower, its shadow stretching long over the forest. A faint movement caught its attention, dust rising where there shouldn't be any.

Through its keen vision, the outline of armed men came into focus. Dozens of them, moving in loose formation, half-hidden by the tree line.

The eagle's head twitched, wings tilting as it banked hard and turned back toward the city.

Far below, a single scout in ragged armor looked up at the sound of beating wings and froze. He saw the shadow pass overhead… then hurried to alert the rest of his group.

Back in the city, a soldier from the archer unit stiffened as the eagle landed on the perch, letting out a low, urgent cry.

He didn't waste a second, word was sent straight to the captains.

The enemy was on the move.

…..

Lumberling jolted awake at the sharp cry of the golden eagle. It was no ordinary call, urgent, and laced with warning.

In one motion, he swung his legs off the bed, strapped on his armor, and took his spear from its stand. The metal was cool in his hands, grounding him as he stepped into the hallway.

Skitz and the other captains were already there, fully armed, eyes alert.

"My Lord," Krivex greeted with a quick nod.

"I know," Lumberling replied, his voice low but firm. "Rouse our soldiers and have them ready. Send word to the Baron." His gaze shifted to Skitz. "You're with me. Let's find out why Sengolio has come back."

Skitz gave a toothy grin and fell in step beside him.

They moved quickly, leaping across rooftops and over the inner wall with practiced ease. A golden eagle swooped down, landing on Lumberling's shoulder. It let out a series of sharp, short calls, more urgent than before.

"Show me where," Lumberling ordered.

The bird launched back into the air, gliding ahead. Lumberling and Skitz followed, their boots barely making a sound on the hard ground. The forest beyond the city walls was cloaked in darkness, but for the two of them, creatures with sharpened senses, the night was no obstacle.

Lumberling slowed suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "Skitz," he murmured.

Without a word, Skitz activated his Whispering Veil. The air around them shimmered faintly, then stilled. Their presence faded, leaving only shadows among the trees.

From the cover of a thick tree branch, Lumberling and Skitz crouched low, their eyes fixed on the figures moving through the shadows below.

What they saw made both of them frown.

This wasn't the Sengolio army returning for revenge.

The men below wore iron caps with nose guards, many adorned with bone trinkets or carved pieces of animal horn. Some even had jagged monster fangs tied into their gear. Their armor was a mix of layered leather and mail shirts, worn and weathered from long use.

Weapons hung heavy at their sides, broad axes, some single-handed, others meant for both hands, their blades etched with strange markings. Round shields, painted in bold clan colors and crude symbols, were strapped to their backs. Spears jutted above their shoulders, and short seax knives gleamed at their belts.

They moved with unnerving coordination, yet not in one mass. Instead, they crept forward in small, scattered bands, slipping between trees and gullies, slowly surrounding the city like wolves closing in on prey.

Lumberling's eyes narrowed. 'They're not Sengolio… then who?'

A glint of moonlight caught on the ink covering one man's forearm, a swirling pattern of knots and beasts. Another passed beneath the tree, his neck and jaw lined with black runes.

Lumberling's brow furrowed deeper. 'Tattoos… bone charms…'

A thought formed. 'Vikings?'

There was no need to guess. The fastest way to know was to take one of them and rip the truth from their essence.

Lumberling shifted his grip on his spear and dropped silently from the branch. Skitz moved with him, a shadow at his side.

They closed in on the one who appeared to be the leader, bigger than the rest, a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders.

Lumberling's spear shot forward, aimed for the man's heart.

Clang!

Steel met steel as the man spun, shield snapping up just in time.

Lumberling's eyes narrowed. 'He sensed me?'

From the man's aura, he wasn't particularly powerful, no stronger than a Knight Apprentice. Yet somehow, he'd caught Lumberling's approach.

"#@%**##!" the man barked, his voice carrying in a guttural dialect Lumberling didn't recognize.

At once, the scattered warriors around him reacted, weapons coming up as they closed ranks.

But Skitz was already moving, slipping in and out of shadows, his blade finding throats and hearts before his victims even realized he was there. Blood sprayed in the dark, but the strangers didn't fall easily.

Unlike trained knights, they didn't cling to defense. They hurled themselves forward without fear, willing to take wounds if it meant landing a killing blow.

Even so, they couldn't keep up with Skitz's speed. One by one, they crumpled into the dirt.

Lumberling stepped in, locking eyes with the leader. The man fought differently than any human soldier, wild, vicious, his strikes coming from odd angles like a beast's pounce.

Lumberling understood that style all too well. Since he was practicing the same fighting style.

With a sudden surge of force, he battered aside the shield, splintering it under the weight of his blow. The next heartbeat, his spear punched through the man's chest.

(You have devoured the Spirit-Bound's essence. 250 essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Spirit-Bound's memories and experiences.)

(You have stepped into the Einherjar's path.)

The moment the Viking's body went still, Lumberling felt the essence rush into him like fire flooding his veins.

It wasn't the disciplined, tempered strength of a knight. This was something raw, untamed. A primal rage that snarled and clawed as it took root inside him.

Images burst behind his eyes. He staggered, breath catching as memories poured in.

He saw through the Viking's life, storm-swept voyages across black seas, raids on burning villages, feasts lit by firelight and dripping with blood. Their power didn't come from years of training. It was born from three intertwined forces: the ferocity of battle, the bonds of their war-brothers, and something older, blessings whispered by gods who watched from the shadows of the world.

The sensation was eerily familiar. Just like when he had absorbed Naxxiriss' Blessing, it felt as though he were tearing a link away from something ancient, ripping it from its rightful bearer and grafting it onto himself.

(You have gained a portion of Týr's Blessing: Týr's Blessing Lv.0 (1/1000))