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Shadows Of Virtue: Fallen Order

Chapter Three

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

19th September, 2024

All Rights Reserved.

Twilight bled across the sky, a deep, bruised purple that cast long, twisted shadows over the hills and valleys. Lady Wynne sat astride her mount, her once brilliant silver armour of a knight sworn to the light was now blackened and etched with sinister sigils, the marks of forgotten, eldritch magicks. The once proud symbol of her knighthood was twisted, corrupted by the dark power that now fuelled her every breath.

Beneath her, Seraphel, the noble steed who had once carried her with honour, pulsed with malevolent energy. His once gleaming coat was now streaked through with dark veins of eldritch power, his luminous eyes burning with an unholy light. Together, they were a vision of corruption, a dark parody of the knightly valour they had once represented.

In the valley below, the garrison of the Order sprawled, its familiar banners fluttering in the cool breeze.

Atop the walls, archers stood, silent and wary, as they kept a lookout. Suddenly, one-pointed, a cry rang out in the twilight air, and an alarm began to sound, a loud, calamitous noise echoing through the night.

Seraphel snarled, his magicks surging as he drew on the deepening shadows, cloaking them both in impenetrable darkness.

They're aware of us, my mount, Lady Wynne's thoughts flowed into him.

Good, Seraphel replied, his muscular body rippling beneath her. Fear makes them careless. Together, my rider, we will show them what fear -truly- is...

Despite Seraphel's cloak of darkness, Wynne could see as if illuminated by full sunlight. The shouts of alarm pierced the night, accompanied by the clatter of armoured boots echoing across the courtyard. Beneath it all, the grating sound of carts and other objects being hurriedly dragged into place for barricades filled her ears, a frantic effort to stem the tide of the impending onslaught.

Fools, the lot of them. Once, Lady Wynne thought, her eyes narrowing beneath her helm. I thought this was home. Those walls sheltered me, those people I had thought, had—loved—were my brothers in arms, my comrades. Now, all I see is the truth, the truth of what they have done to me, how they mocked me, tortured me, twisted and shaped me, trying to make me something I could never be!

Seraphel quivered beneath her, her darkness, her anger, filling him, suffusing him with purpose and pleasure as he greedily fed upon her dark thoughts. His influence was subtle, filling her heart with fury—a rage that simmered just below the surface, born of betrayal and her overwhelming desire for vengeance.

Seraphel's voice, once a proud and noble presence in her mind, was now twisted, dripping with dark promise. It is time, my lady. His tone was eager, his cloven front left hoof gouging at the ground. He fed off the growing darkness around them as night fell, his power surging.

Wynne's lips curled into a smile, but it was no longer the warm righteous smile she had once worn. This was something darker, something cruel. Her gauntleted fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, and her eyes, glowing with eldritch fire, never left the garrison of the Order below.

“Let them see what they have wrought,” she whispered, her voice carrying a sadistic, twisted satisfaction.

Seraphel reared up, his hooves crackling with dark energy, the very air around them rippling as shadows coiled and writhed in anticipation. With a fierce cry, they charged down the hill, Lady Wynne's sword unsheathed and held resolutely before her. Around them, the night enveloped them like a shroud, eager to feed the dark magicks surging through their veins.

Arrows screamed through the twilight, seeking to strike true, but Lady Wynne's corrupted power ignited them one by one in brilliant greenish-black flashes, turning the deadly projectiles to ashes that drifted down like cursed snow. They thundered ever closer to the keep's fortified and warded doors, the ominous promise of her vengeance coming in a blood-curdling scream.

Nothing will keep me from my vengeance... Wynne thought, the fire of retribution burning fiercely in her chest, igniting an almost reckless resolve that thrummed through every fibre of her being.

As they thundered towards the garrison, Wynne's gaze locked onto the grand doors of the outer keep. Memories of days long past flickered through her mind—moments of training, of camaraderie, of battles fought side by side with the people she was about to slaughter.

Seraphel's rage built, and he snorted angrily, crushing the tiny spark of light that tried to flicker within Wynne. Remember what they did to you? The scourges? Their words, how they broke you—an innocent creature—filled your head and heart with lies and false promises? Remember Lady Wynne, remember!

“I... remember...” Wynne snarled, her lips curling back as she unsheathed her blackened sword, its edge gleaming with a greenish-black flame, her own hatred and anger feeding off of Seraphel's, growing stronger, all-consuming.

Her free hand crackled with eldritch energy, the dark power thrumming through her like a second heartbeat. She whispered an incantation under her breath, and with a flick of her wrist, the great doors exploded inwards, shards of wood and twisted metal flying in all directions. The sound of the blast echoed through the night, a harbinger of the carnage that was to come.

They stood behind their makeshift barricades, spears set and pointed outwards, their eyes focused, their hearts resolute. They expected to impale Seraphel's charging form and that of Wynne.

Hold tight, rider. Seraphel's whisper coiled in Wynne's mind, laced with dark, malicious glee.

With a surge of Seraphel's magicks, shadows began to writhe and coil about them, but these were no mere illusions. The darkness was a part of them, alive, real—an extension of their very essence. It wasn't shadow they wielded, but the tangible power of the void itself.

As the paladins braced for impact, the shadows surged forward, serpentine tendrils of pure malevolent energy. What appeared to be a charging form of Seraphel, with Wynne on his back, was, in truth, their fully manifested selves. The soldiers realised too late what they had set their spears against wasn't just a distraction but the very embodiment of the doom they feared.

In one terrifying moment, the shadowy forms ripped apart like smoke, blinding and choking those closest to it. Those guards stationed at the entrance barely had time to react. Their hands fumbled for their swords, eyes wide in surprise, uncertain at which to strike.

Wynne and Seraphel materialised amidst them as if stepping from the very shadows themselves. The darkness did not simply cloak them—it was them. Seraphel's fangs sheared through a guard's throat with savage precision, while Wynne's sword danced through the armoured bodies of the first line of defenders, effortlessly cutting through them as if the knights were nothing more than parchment.

These brave knights had prepared for a frontal assault, but now, they fought shadows made flesh, facing not deception, but death itself.

Seraphel descended upon them, a cloven-hooved angel of death, made flesh. His fangs sheared through the gorget of one guard's throat, crimson blood spurting, another impaled with his ebony horn—the guard's mouth exploding with blood, before Seraphel's tossed the mortally wounded man aside like he was nothing.

Wynne's sword cut through others like a blade through butter, her movements swift and merciless. Choking cries and blood spatter covered her and Seraphel's hide, neither of them caring, revelling in the death and slaughter they inflicted.

Drawing on Seraphel's magicks, Lady Wynne vaulted from his back, landing in a dramatic crouch, one leg out to the side, one armoured knee crushing the cobblestone beneath it, her sword held diagonally across her chest.

Seraphel's nicker of laughter filled her mind, before he simply vanished into the shadows, hunting by himself.

Go then, I don't need you, I don't need anyone! Wynne thought fiercely, yet a flicker of doubt shadowed her mind as his presence faded.

As the tide of battle raged on, Wynne found herself momentarily surrounded by a group of four knights who had regrouped with a fierce determination born of desperation. Their blades flashed and danced, their faces set with a grim resolve. Wynne twisted and spun, deflecting their strikes, others landed, but none pierced her armour In a moment of arrogance, Wynne lunged forward to take down a knight who had overextended himself, believing she could overwhelm him with her natural speed and power.

As she thrust her sword toward him, he parried, and in that instant, another knight took advantage of her mistake. With a swift and calculated move, he thrust a dagger through the gap in her plate armour, stabbing deep into her lower back, just above her kidneys.

The shock of the blade felt like fire coursing through her, and she staggered back, gritting her teeth to suppress a cry of pain. Blood began to seep through her fur and clothing, staining it a dark crimson, the metallic scent mingling with the chaos around her as she glared at the knights with a mixture of fury and disbelief.

“You think you can stop me?” Wynne snarled, holding one hand against the wound, waving her sword with the other threateningly.

“We will not turn from our sacred vows, not to you, not to anyone...” One spoke, his face serene, as he lifted his sword defiantly. “The Light will prevail, you will fall...”

Wynne had had enough of their facetious lies...

Wynne's eyes blazed with anger, a primal fury igniting within her. “The Light? Your so-called righteousness won't save you!” She lunged forward, despite the pain radiating from her wound, determined to silence the knight's hollow words.

As she closed the distance, the knight's expression shifted from defiance to alarm. He swung his sword in a desperate arc, but Wynne sidestepped, her movements faster than they'd ever been. With a swift slash, she caught him across the throat. He stumbled back, blood spurting from the mortal wound, his face shifting from shock to a calm serenity before he crumpled to the ground, dead before he hit.

The others hesitated, uncertainty creeping into their ranks. Wynne seized her moment, roaring. “You want to know what true power is?”

With a fierce thrust, she parried the blade of another knight, spun about and in a devastating overhead slash, shattered the blade of another one, her flickering blade almost cutting him in half.

Intoxicated by bloodlust and rage, her heart thundered her chest, each pulse fuelling her frenzy.

Each clash of steel against steel echoed in her ears, drowning out the pain, until one of the remaining knights, sensing their resolve wavering, shouted. “Together, brothers! We stand as one!”

They rallied, three knights forming a semi-circle around her, their swords raised in unison. Wynne's heart raced—this was not just a fight for survival; it was a fight for dominance.

“Come then!” she roared, fury and savagery intertwining. “Let us see how your Light holds against the Dark!

*

Wynne shuddered, her shoulders drooping, weak and panting, as she stumbled away from the carnage, the dead knights at her feet. She felt empowered, invigorated, yet she knew the blood loss she had suffered—continued to suffer—it would...

No, I'll not fall to them, not now, not ever! Wynne's dark rage flared white hot within her, her eyes casting about until they fixed with a predatory gleam on a young knight...

A squire, like I once was— Wynne's memories flashed through her mind, before the darkness swept them away, her hand tightening on the bloodied grip of her sword as she marched purposefully towards him, blood dripping in her wake.

One of the guards, a young man who couldn't have been more than a recruit, dropped his blade and held his hands up in a feeble attempt at surrender. His eyes widened as he recognised her. “L-Lady Wynne?” he stammered, his voice trembling with disbelief. “It's—“

The words died on his lips as her sword cut through him, his lifeblood staining the ground at her armoured cloven hooves.

Wynne's breath came in ragged gasps, her heart pounding in her chest.

This is what you made me! This is what your precious Order has wrought. Lady Wynne thought to herself. Her rage inside her surged, and with it, the eldritch magick that coiled and twisted through her veins, feeding on her fury and hatred.

More will come, Seraphel's voice whispered in her mind, seductive and powerful. They will all fall.

Wynne's lips parted in a breathy laugh, dark and bitter. “Let them come.”

*

A new wave of knights poured from their barracks, their faces a mixture of determination and resolve.

“Form a defensive line,” a tall, broad-shouldered knight shouted, his voice steady as he raised his sword. He locked eyes with Wynne, recognition flickering in his gaze. “Lady Wynne! Stand down—this doesn't have to end in bloodshed!”

His command echoed through the air, cutting through the chaos as the knights moved swiftly, their training kicking in. They stood shoulder to shoulder, swords gleaming in the flickering torchlight, a bastion of discipline against the encroaching darkness.

Lady Wynne's eyes narrowed, her thoughts dark and baleful. “You think you can stop me?” she sneered, her voice laced with contempt.

With a single movement, the guards braced themselves, swords raised, the crash of their armoured boots against the cobblestones echoing like a war drum. Their faces hardened with fervour and resolve.

“We will protect this Order, Wynne. Even if it means standing against what you have become!” Snarled their commander.

Former comrades, men I fought against and with, in my training. How many of them took my blood, claiming it was an accident? How many that night, held me down, brutalised me, tortured me? Oh, none of them took my virtue, no... they wouldn't dare, but there was -other- ways to break a doe, wasn't there? Wynne's lips curled back in a vicious snarl, her gauntleted hand tightening on the grip of her sword.

They're nothing more than obstacles in your path. Seraphel's dark whisper flooded her mind. Take your vengeance, my lady. Bathe in their blood, feast upon their screams, and make them know what fear truly tastes like!

Lady Wynne's mocking smile spread wider. With a formal salute of her twisted sword, she stepped into the ready pose, her eyes dark and filled with cruelty.

“Lady Wynne!” he shouted, his voice filled with command. “Stop this madness! It's not too late—“

His words ended in a choking gurgle, as Wynne's blade found his throat, the dark magicks infusing the blade slicing through his armour like it were parchment. He fell to the ground, his body convulsing as she snarled and brought her cloven hoof down, his head exploding like a dropped melon on the cobblestones.

There was no hesitation. Wynne moved like a shadow, a vengeful scythe, cutting down all who stood in her way. Her sword sang as it cleaved through armour, flesh and bone with terrifying speed, the eldritch energy amplifying her strength beyond anything she had ever known.

They fought honourably.

They died horribly.

For those who tried to run, Wynne merely flicked her hand and her dark magicks ensnared them, burning through flesh and bone, leaving ravaged, and in some cases, mere chunks, of what had once been human.

Paladin didn't know fear.

Yet Seraphel's squeals and snorts sent even the stoutest of hearts racing with dread. He trampled and impaled foes, brutally kicking and even using his powerful jaws to crush armour, flesh and bone with violence and bloodlust that was incomprehensible.

For every knight that fell, another stepped forward, their faces grim with resolve.

It was a futile effort.

Wynne was unstoppable, her rage fuelled her, Seraphel's dark magicks pulsing through her like a living thing. She felt it thrumming in her very bones, felt it coursing through her veins, tasted it on her tongue—mingled with the blood of the slain—like the finest of wines. It drove her forward with a relentless fury.

Amidst the chaos, she spun about, there, backed against the wall, her face white and tears streaking down her cheeks—a young woman with a familiar face. Wynne remembered her, remembered her laughter, remembered how after that terrible night, that woman had held her, comforted her, given the violated and broken doe something she thought she'd never have...

Love...

For a brief moment, Wynne's blade faltered, a flicker of recognition passing through her.

Then, Seraphel's voice blasted through her mind, cold and insistent, impossible to resist. They betrayed you! They abandoned you. Finish it!

With a snarl, Wynne grabbed the screaming woman by the throat, lifting her off the ground, her blood-flecked lips almost brushing against the strangling woman's, who clawed at Wynne's gauntleted forearm and choked and convulsed. Wynne didn't hesitate. Her lips curled back in a cruel, predatory expression of pure rage before she buried her sword in the woman's chest, and her heart hardened once more. The woman's eyes widened in shock, a faint plea dying on her lips before her body went limp.

Wynne's breath hitched, her chest heaving as she planted a hoof against the stone, pulling her sword free. Blood dripped from the blade, pooling around her hooves. For a moment, she stared down at the body, a faint flicker of something—_regret?--_gnawing at the edges of her consciousness.

But then her fingers tightened around the hilt, knuckles whitening as a cold resolve settled in her chest. Her eyes darkened, steely determination replacing any trace of hesitation. She couldn't afford to feel. Not now. Not anymore.

*

The inner sanctum loomed before her, its grand stone doors untouched by the carnage outside. This was the heart of the Order, the place where the High Lord and his council had once made their decisions. It had been a sanctuary, a place where light and hope had reigned, where justice was meted out in the name of righteousness.

Wynne's bloodied lips twisted into a dark smile as her gaze sharped, predatory. Now? She mused, feeling the weight of the eldritch magicks coiling once more within her veins. Now, it is little more than a tomb waiting to be sealed.

She marched forward, the sound of her armoured hooves echoing ominously against the stone floor. With a flick of her wrist, the grand doors cracked, groaned, and then exploded into rubble, the force of her magick tearing through the sanctum's last barrier. Wynne strode into the chamber like a conqueror, her eyes—once a deep, soulful brown—now black as night, reflecting the power and malice that surged within her.

The chamber was eerily silent, save for the occasional crackle of flames from the sconces lining the walls. Their dim light flickered, casting twisted shadows that danced along the ancient stone. At the far end of the room, kneeling before the altar, was the High Lord himself, draped in the same ceremonial robes as he had worn the day Wynne had been knighted. Now, they looked worn, threadbare—much like the man who wore them.

“Our lost doe returns to us,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of disappointment and sorrow, though, as he turned his head, his eyes gleamed with a flicker of hope. The screech of his great sword being dragged along the floor sent a shiver down Wynne's spine, the sound sharp and grating in the suffocating silence. Her ears flattened in response, her nostrils flaring at the scent of incense that lingered in the air—a bitter contrast to the blood and gore that flecked her armoured form.

“You are not the doe that went forth from these hallowed walls...” His words hung in the air, the gravity of them piercing through Wynne's armour of malice. His eyes, once hardened by years of leadership, softened with something like pity. He stood tall, though his age showed in the tremor of his limbs.

Wynne let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound carrying an edge of madness. “No,” she replied, her voice a cold whisper laced with venom. “That doe died long ago, abandoned by the light you so zealously serve.”

The High Lord's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “I had hoped you would return to us whole, Wynne. But I see now, the darkness we sensed within you has claimed you entirely.”

“Claimed me?” Her smile widened, a terrible thing, and she raised her hand, dark energy crackling off her armoured fingers. “No, it liberated me. Freed me from the lies of the Order, the lies you told us all!”

Her words seethed with years of pent-up rage, resentment that had festered and grown like a malignant wound. The High Lord took a step forward, his body trembling, but his eyes resolute. “I failed you, Wynne,” he admitted, the raw honesty in his voice striking her harsher than any blow. “We all failed you. For that, I am sorry.”

Wynne's smile faltered for the briefest moment, a flicker of something almost human, crossing her face. But the darkness surging within her veins crushed it, pushing away the final remnants of the person she had once been.

“You're right to be sorry,” she snarled. “Because now you will die along with your precious Order!”

With a surprising move, the High Lord lifted his sword, the gleaming blade catching the light of the flames as he slashed at her.

Wynne screamed, the blade slicing through her armoured thigh, the blade striking bone. She stumbled away, clutching at the wound with one hand, the other gripping her sword.

*

Their blades met, blood spilled, but there was only one possible outcome for either of them...

*

With a strike born out of pure spite, malevolence and blood lust, Wynne brought her sword down in a two-handed grip. Her blade screamed as it struck his, and then to his horror, his sword exploded into fragments that tinkled to the floor around him. He stumbled backwards, the useless hilt clattering to the floor as he backed up to the altar, gasping for breath.

Wynne advanced on him, dragging her leg, blood leaving a slick trail behind her, her eyes narrowing in unimagined thoughts that transcended words.

“Lady Wynne!” Pleaded the High Lord. “The Light... will not... forsake us. You may... kill me--”

She grabbed him by the back of his hair, snapping his neck back, before he twisted her head and sank her teeth into his throat. Instantly, hot, iron-rich blood spurted down her throat and she pulled him tighter, drinking his blood like it was the ambrosia of the gods. His sandal-clad feet pummelled against the ground, his hands slapped against her armour, until mercifully, he passed out.

Lady Wynne held her grip for a time unknown before she lifted her bloodied muzzle and sighed, her lips licking away the last vestiges of blood from her lips, before she stepped back, looking at the defiled corpse before her.

“There is no Light here,” she whispered, her voice dripping with malice. “not anymore...father. Oh, you thought yourself so pure, so innocent? I know the truth now...you live within me, now. I know what you did, how you claimed that doe, that pure, innocent creature of the forest! How you kept her for months, subjected her to such unspeakable cruelty until her mind shattered! Yet through your magicks, your vaunted light, she birthed a fawn, didn't she? That fawn...”

Lady Wynne turned away, then began dragging herself back towards the shattered doorway, before she paused, her gauntleted hand clenching in rage and despondency.

“That fawn...” she repeated, glancing back over her shoulder. “Was me...”

Lady Wynne turned her darkness inwards, in her mind, she saw the High Lord, his soul, trapped within a prison of her mind, screaming silently into the impenetrable void, unable to escape into death.

No, father... Lady Wynne's smile was cruel, her thoughts turning inwards as she resumed dragging herself back towards the shattered doors. No...there is no Light, there is no...mercy.

Only shadows remain.

END