Faced against overwhelming odds, the King had lost all his hopes. His enemies stretched across the entirety of the western horizon, whereas only a few hundred surviving men stood with him. Loyal till the very end, yet exhausted from countless defeats and having been chased across the Kingdom.

To His north was an impassable mountain range filled with harpies and giants. To His south was the dense forest that barricaded his escape. On the King’s back was the deadly swampland that for decades had gobbled up any who attempted to enter the forbidden land beyond. His Majesty was truly trapped. It was thus natural that the King sincerely wished for a miracle. The Roselandeurs assured him it would come.

“My! It has been a while,” an old woman’s voice distracted the King. She had come with her man, an equally old Sieur-knight, a very recently sworn ally to the desperate King. The Roselandeurs, who had come across the impossible swampland. Mythical beings to the rest of the Kingdom.

His Majesty brushed off the raindrops from his thick eyebrows and gazed upon the sky. It must have been some form of magic. The downpour had miraculously stopped, and the gloomy clouds now dispersed. But the sky was now slowly being smudged by countless columns of black smokes rising from the north-eastern hilltop afar.

The King then lowered his eyes to the earth and turned to face the woman. The wrinkled witch of the land was grimacing yet smiling. She ripped a long shred off her robe and then proceeded to wrap it around her head, covering the eyes and the ears.

“She has come,” the woman announced.

The silver-haired Sieur was delighted. The King followed the man’s gaze and scanned the distant hilltop.

“There!”

From her majestic husband’s side, the Queen shouted and pointed with her sword. The King squinted his eyes and spotted two horse-mounted figures on the hilltop.

“The La Rose’s banner! The Roseborn!” the Queen growled. Her voice, a mixture of envy, grudge, and admiration.

It was puzzling to the King. He turned again and looked to make it sure. A man behind the Roseland’s Sieur was flying the La Rose’s banner, yet there appeared another one on the hilltop?

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the silver-bearded Sieur knight seemed to have read the King’s mind. He nodded with glee. “That is indeed her. And the Regent.”

The old knight then turned to face the army who had come with him. He pulled the sword out and raised it high.

“My fellow Roselandeurs! Your Baroness has come!”

The men from the Roseland erupted in loud cheers. Among those men were the old guards of Armas, the surviving few who still remembered the adventurous days of the past. Hardened veterans who had seen and done many despicable things, but now in overjoyed tears.

From the hilltop afar, the Maiden of the Roseland greeted her old friends. She unsheathed her sword and raised it high. Her translucent blade was scorchingly bright yet divine.