Exiled Baron On Horse

The Baron approached the edge of the forest once again, where his mercenary troops lay hidden, to survey the village below. Everything unfolded with the usual tranquility of a spring morning: villagers herding their livestock to nearby meadows, merchants setting up their market stalls, and women carrying bundles of clothes to the riverside washhouse under the bridge.

A serene morning that he was poised to transform into one of blazing combat. His former servants had assured him that the drawbridge of the nearby castle would remain lowered long enough for him and his men to storm through, that the garrison was of poor quality, more interested in depleting the palace's kitchens and wine cellars than in defending it.

With a fierce glint in his eye, he turned his head and signaled the advance, his men ready to sprint the short distance to the wall. He mentally recited the names of the captains who would aid him in reclaiming what was rightfully his by birthright, stolen from him through treachery. At last, his vengeance was within reach.

The time had come to shatter the calm and reclaim his destiny, to turn the peaceful village into a battleground and restore his honor with blood and steel. The Baron and his loyal captains would ensure that this day would be remembered in the annals of history as the moment when justice was fiercely regained.