The moon hung in the sky, half-obscured by clouds, while inside the castle, torches cast their glow on stone walls haunted by shadows. Trevor Drakarion stood before a map laid out on a table, his eyes fixed on the enemy's location. The door opened quietly, and a tall, broad-shouldered man entered, a grey wolf's fur draped over his shoulders, and a scar running from his eyebrow to his chin.
It was Ser John… the Beast.
Trevor (in a calm but charged voice):
"I have a mission for you... a suicide mission, Ser John."
Ser John smiled with a heavy sarcasm, approaching with quiet steps as if death were his friend:
John:
"My Lord... how do you think a bastard like me was nicknamed the Beast?
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I didn't earn the title as a compliment, but deserved it by gnawing flesh and sowing terror.
Just tell me... I am your man."
Trevor stepped forward, pointing on the map to the heart of the enemy camp.
Trevor:
"I want you to go out under the cover of darkness... and shake the ground beneath their feet.
Set fire to their tents... scatter their supplies... release their horses.
Make them wake up thinking hell itself has been unleashed upon them.
Can you do it?"
John (with a twisted smile):
"My Lord... this is my specialty."
Trevor (looking into his eyes):
"What will you need? And when will you depart?"
John:
"Twenty men only... each one of them worth a battalion.
And just one hour to prepare them."
Trevor (tapping on the table):
"Choose them yourself... and take what you need.
Show me what you have, Beast."
John stepped back two paces, placed his fist over his heart in a respectful bow, then turned towards the door.
John (with a mad grin as he left):
"Ah... yes, my Lord.
They will think that death itself has come out of your castle tonight."
He exited, and the sound of his footsteps faded... while Trevor remained standing, looking at the flames in the hearth, as if the first spark of psycholog
ical warfare had been ignited.
