In The Dead Of Night [Plot]

On the open seas, 

The CAM ship sways gently upon the rolling ocean waves, its wooden hull creaking softly with each rhythmic shift. A salty breeze drifts lazily across the deck, the only sound accompanying the occasional flutter of a loose sail. Overhead, a sky thick with stars stretches endlessly, their faint glimmers reflected in the dark, undisturbed waters.

The day crew sleeps soundly below deck, lost in dreams of home or the monotony of their duties, while the night crew stands at their posts, maintaining a quiet vigil. They move about in hushed tones, their lanterns casting flickering halos of light that dance along the wooden planks. It is a peaceful, uneventful night—until it isn’t.

A strange glow begins to wash over the ship, an eerie orange hue creeping across the deck like the first light of dawn. At first, the sailors barely register it, their minds sluggish from the quiet monotony of the night. But as the glow intensifies, turning the dark sea and ship’s sails into a canvas of flickering firelight, heads begin to lift, eyes widening in confusion and growing dread.

A few murmur among themselves, searching for the source. Then, all at once, a collective realization dawns as gazes snap skyward.

High above the ship, a massive, glowing sphere of fire descends, its molten surface shifting and writhing like a living thing. It hurtles toward them, growing larger, brighter—unstoppable.
The ship’s second-in-command, a seasoned sailor with more battles behind him than he cares to count, feels his blood run cold. His breath catches, his body frozen for only a second before sheer survival instinct takes hold. He sucks in a sharp breath and bellows, his voice raw and urgent.

“E’rybody! Abandon ship!”

The warning comes too late.

The flaming sphere crashes into the deck with an earth-shaking explosion. The force of impact sends jagged splinters of wood flying in all directions, cutting through flesh and fabric alike. A wall of fire erupts outward, hungry and unrelenting, consuming everything in its path. Sailors caught too close to the explosion are engulfed instantly, their screams piercing the night before they vanish beneath the raging flames.

The deck becomes an inferno, the fire racing along the wooden planks as though the ship itself has been soaked in oil. Those who can move stumble toward the ship’s edges, driven by primal terror, some flinging themselves overboard in a desperate bid for survival. Others, trapped by the rapidly spreading fire, can only scream as the flames consume them.

Below deck, the chaos is no less deadly. The explosion rocks the entire vessel, sending men tumbling from their hammocks, their lungs seared by thick, acrid smoke. Flames slither down the passageways like living creatures, cutting off escape routes as crew members scramble blindly, coughing, desperate for air. Some make for the stairs, only to find fire waiting at the top. Others claw at walls and doors, their efforts futile as the ship transforms into a floating pyre.

The ship groans—a deep, ominous sound, the wood warping and cracking under the immense heat. Then, with a thunderous splintering, the vessel gives way. The deck, already weakened by the impact, collapses inward. The ship begins to break apart, its timbers snapping like brittle twigs.

The ocean rushes in.

Within moments, water floods the lower decks, swallowing everything in its path. Bodies—burned, broken, and lifeless—are dragged into the abyss as the ship’s remains are pulled beneath the waves. Some of the crew, still clinging to life, struggle against the relentless pull, but exhaustion and injury are cruel companions. One by one, they slip beneath the surface, their final breaths lost to the dark.

For hours, the sea churns with the remnants of destruction—burning debris bobbing aimlessly, faint cries swallowed by the vast, indifferent ocean. Then, slowly, the waves settle.

The night falls silent once more, as though the ship and its crew had never been there at all.

__________

Across the Draconian Domain, the scent of smoke and the sharp tang of blood claw at the senses of those still lost in sleep. The acrid stench seeps into homes, curling beneath doors and through open windows, rousing the Draconians from their slumber. Confused and groggy, they stumble from their beds, only for the night’s chilling reality to slam into them the moment they step outside.

The world is burning.

Villages and farmlands are ablaze, the once-proud settlements now reduced to crumbling, smoldering ruins. The sky, once a deep and peaceful midnight blue, glows with an eerie orange hue, thick plumes of smoke twisting like wraiths toward the skies. Shadows dance wildly against the inferno as the bodies of slain guards and militia litter the streets, their weapons lying useless beside them.

Through the carnage, massive golems lumber forward with terrifying precision. Their stone and gem-encrusted bodies gleam in the flickering firelight, their monstrous fists rising and falling with merciless force. Bones shatter like brittle twigs beneath their crushing blows, and the streets run slick with blood.

Above, the wind howls with the beat of wings—not draconian, but those of the invaders. Winged creatures swoop low, their iron collars glinting in the firelight, their swords and spears cutting through draconian flesh with brutal efficiency. Those who try to fight back find themselves overwhelmed, their flames barely licking at the armor of their enemies before being snuffed out. Screams of the dying and the desperate echo through the night, but they are swallowed by the roaring flames and the resounding crash of buildings collapsing into rubble.

Within the family estate, King Kalil and Prince Connor are ripped from sleep by a frantic pounding on their bedroom door. The sound is urgent, desperate—a warning of danger that needs no words.

Kalil reacts instantly. His hand shoots beneath his pillow, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife. The moment he pulls it free, flames surge to life along its curved edge, illuminating the foreign runes etched into the blade. The fire casts flickering shadows across the walls as he moves with practiced precision, his breath steady despite the chaos that surely awaits beyond the door.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Connor rising as well, already reaching for his staff. The Prince's grip is tight, his blue eyes sharp with readiness.

Kalil lowers the protective wards with a murmured incantation, the magic dispersing with a faint shimmer. The heavy door creaks as he cracks it open, revealing the breathless figure of Commander Noctis, his yellow scales glistening with sweat. His chest heaves as he sucks in desperate breaths.

"Your Majesty!" Noctis gasps, barely catching his breath. "We’re under attack. Towns and villages all over are being razed to the ground!"

Kalil’s grip tightens around his blade and he clenches his jaw. “Get everyone to the war room!”

This is no skirmish. This is not a mere raid.

This is war.

And the Draconian Domain will not fall without a fight.
__________

North of the Ariadnian Kingdom, the roads that once served as vital arteries of trade and diplomacy are being choked by an unseen force, cut off with cold, calculated precision. Strategic blockades rise along both the major and minor roads leading to the Elven Kingdom, forming an iron grip between the two realms.

Towering golems of stone and gemstone stand like unyielding sentinels, their massive frames blocking entire passages, their hollow eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Alongside them, winged creatures wearing enchanted iron collars hover menacingly above the roads, their keen eyes scanning for movement, their clawed hands gripping swords and spears.

The blockade is not just a deterrent—it is a slaughterhouse.

Guards traveling the roads are met with swift and merciless deaths. They barely have time to draw their weapons before the winged creatures descend upon them, their blades striking true, cutting them down where they stand. Blood seeps into the dirt paths, staining the once well-traveled roads with the dark price of war.

Merchants, caught in the ambush, fare no better. Their cries for mercy fall upon deaf ears. The golems strike with crushing force, shattering carts and bodies alike, while the winged creatures pick through the wreckage with ruthless efficiency. No one is spared—not the merchants, not their guards, not even the terrified horses. Their bodies lie strewn across the roadways, the air thick with the metallic stench of spilled blood and the acrid scent of smoldering wood. Gold, food, weapons—anything of value is looted from the carriages, scavenged by the invaders before the remains of the attack are left to rot under the open sky.

Yet amid the devastation, one figure escapes.

An Elven soldier, bloodied and gasping for breath, spurs his horse forward with every ounce of strength he has left. The beast beneath him is slick with sweat and on the brink of collapse, but there is no time to rest. He rides hard through the forests, his mind racing as he recalls the horror left behind—the dying screams, the faces of those he could not save.

His mission is clear: warn the crown.

By the time he reaches the towering spires of the Elven palace, his horse is foaming at the mouth, barely able to stand. The soldier nearly falls from the saddle as he dismounts, his legs trembling with exhaustion. Palace guards rush to his side, catching him before he collapses completely.

He forces the words out between ragged breaths, his voice hoarse and urgent. “I need… the King and Queen… now.”

Within the grand chambers of the palace, the royal couple is torn from their slumber. The heavy doors to their chamber are thrown open as a steward hastens inside, his expression grim. Behind him, the soldier stands, his uniform torn, his body streaked with blood—some his own, some not.

The Queen and King rise immediately, alarm flashing in their eyes as they take in the soldier’s condition.

And then the message is delivered, simple yet heavy with finality.

“We have lost all contact and access to the Ariadnian Empire.”

A silence follows, thick and suffocating. A silence that marks the first breath of war.

__________


As night settles over Ariad, the land is draped in a quiet stillness. The towns and villages rest under a blanket of darkness, their people either deep in slumber or quietly unwinding after a day’s toil in the fields, on the docks, or wherever their labor has taken them. The streets are nearly empty, save for the occasional patrol of town guards or militia, their armor glinting faintly under the pale glow of lanterns. The rhythmic chorus of crickets and cicadas hums in the cool night air, blending with the gentle rustling of the wind as it weaves through trees and rooftops.

But along the borders of Ariad, in the outlying villages and hamlets, a sinister presence creeps closer. The nocturnal symphony falters. Crickets fall silent. The wind ceases its whispering, as though the very land itself dares not breathe in the face of the approaching dread. A hush spreads over the wilderness, thick and unnatural, forewarning the doom that slithers ever nearer.

From the depths of the shadows, under the silvered gaze of the moon, an unnatural army marches. Their ranks move with eerie precision—golems of straw, stone, and glistening gemstone, their faceless forms illuminated by flickering torchlight. Twisting through their ranks, elemental creatures flicker and shift—fire-wreathed atrioches, mist-like mephits, and chittering goblins skittering on all fours. Overhead, winged beings glide through the darkness, the iron collars fastened around their throats glinting like shackles of servitude. Their swords gleam with a cruel sharpness, their spears poised for slaughter.

Without warning, the attack begins. The creatures descend upon the unsuspecting settlements like a wave of nightmares given form. Guards barely have time to shout warnings before they are cut down, their weapons clattering uselessly against the overwhelming onslaught. Flames erupt across thatched roofs, turning the tranquil villages into infernos of chaos. Fields are trampled beneath fleeing feet and clawed invaders, the soil darkened with blood and ash, feet crushing any remaining viable crops. Screams pierce the air, only to be swallowed by the roar of fire and the clash of steel.

Those who manage to escape do so in terror, scattering like leaves in the wind. Some vanish into the dense forests, their panicked breaths swallowed by the thick underbrush. Others are dragged from their homes, their fates sealed in the merciless grip of their assailants.

By the time the first light of dawn brushes against the horizon, messengers are already riding hard toward the baronies, their steeds lathered in sweat and their voices hoarse with urgency.

At the grand estate of Baroness Charlotte, the peace of early morning is shattered by the frantic pounding of a fist against her heavy oaken door. Startled awake, she throws on a robe and unbolts the entrance, revealing a breathless Sir Fallin, his face pale with exhaustion and dread.

“Baroness…” he gasps, barely able to form the words. “We’re… under attack.”

Miles away, deep within his fortified hold, Baron Linneus stands rigid as a ranger kneels before him, delivering a grim report. His voice is tight, controlled—but his knuckles whiten around the hilt of his sword as he listens. The outlying villages and towns are being razed, the destruction swift and merciless.

Meanwhile, in the heart of Seshtau, Baroness Jade is jolted from her restless work by a deafening banging against her office door. With a flick of her wrist, she unlatches it, revealing a Seshtauan soldier, panting and wild-eyed.

“Baroness…!” His breath comes in ragged gasps. “We’re being attacked! The farms—they’re burning. The villages—they’re falling one by one!”

The dawn rises over a land already steeped in fire and ruin. And as the baron and baronesses awaken to the grim reality before them, one thing is certain—Ariad is at war.