Descending the ramparts felt longer than the climb.

By the time they reached the streets below, the company moved like shades: silent, hunched, every step heavier than the last. Smoke drifted through the narrow alleys of Cirol’s inner wards, not from battle, but from cramped hearths and torches lit too early. The city, like them, was tired.

No one spoke as they passed a shuttered bakery with ash-caked windows. A child watched them from behind a slatted door. Somewhere distant, a hammer rang out against bent metal. Even here, with thick stone between them and the siege, the war pressed in.

Captain Darrin had assigned them temporary lodging in an abandoned quartermaster’s hall, one of the few stone buildings still intact this close to the northern wall. It smelled of old grain and mold, but the cots were dry and the door latched.

Boaz barely managed to shrug off his cloak before collapsing onto the nearest cot. He heard others doing the same: Kiera’s soft grunt as she kicked off her boots, Theo muttering something about pillow density, Jaxson already snoring. Lyra curled up with her back to the door, hand resting on the hilt of her blade.

Merran didn’t sleep. He sat near the entrance, silent, head bowed in thought, or prayer.

Boaz woke to the smell of broth and the low murmur of voices. A faint warmth from the banked hearth clung to the edges of the hall. Beside him, Thorne slept in a crouched coil: muscles relaxed, tufted ears flicking at every sound. The lynx looked as peaceful as Boaz felt, because remarkably, he had slept deeply, dreamlessly.

A sharp knock came at the door.

Aldryn opened it, and three figures stood in the chill morning light: a weathered lieutenant in City Guard colors, and two children holding mismatched trays: a boy and a girl, both about twelve, bundled in aprons and patched cloaks.

The girl answered first.

“Morning rations,” she said, lifting her tray like a prize. “From Cook Hensen, southeast mess. Says if it’s cold when you eat it, that’s your fault. I’m Marra,” she added, with a quick curtsy. “That’s Tobbit. He’s new.”

“I’m not new,” Tobbit muttered, eyes fixed on Thorne. “I just… he’s real?” Thorne had stirred, blinking lazily. The boy stared like he was seeing a legend come to life. “The lynx,” he whispered. “You’re the one with the lynx.”

Boaz sat up, rubbing sleep from his face. “That’s Thorne. Don’t feed him unless you want to lose a finger.”

“Does he eat children?” Tobbit asked, half seriously.

“Only the slow ones,” Boaz said with a wry smile.

Marra nudged Tobbit and handed over the tray. “He’s not gonna eat you. I mean… probably.”

They distributed bowls: thin stew with root vegetables, sharp cheese, and a hard wedge of bread. The smell wasn’t bad, and no one complained.

“Cook says it’ll keep you on your feet,” Marra said. “Least until lunch.” She paused, eyes flicking over the group, lingering again on Boaz. “People are talking about you. All of you.”

Boaz gave her a tired smile. “Hope they’re saying good things.”

“They’re saying… maybe we have a chance.”

Before he could respond, Tobbit grabbed her sleeve and tugged. They gave a quick bow and darted off, bowls empty, faces flushed.

The lieutenant, a broad-shouldered man in scuffed armor, remained.

“Lieutenant Harn, per Captain Darrin,” he said with a nod. “Told to report to your company and assign duties. But no names came with the order.” Aldryn stepped forward, Nevara fluttering down to perch on his shoulder. “That’s because I’ll be making the assignments. Boaz and I will be requesting an audience with the council.”

Merran, standing at the far end of the room adjusting the ties of his sash, stepped up beside them. “And I go with them,” he said firmly. “As representative of the Aguan people. Some on your council may have forgotten us, but we haven’t forgotten them.”

Harn blinked, uncertain, then bowed, not deeply, but with care. “Understood.”

“The others are yours,” Aldryn added. “They’re not raw recruits. Trust them, and don’t try to micromanage them. They know how to get things done.”

“Noted.” The rest of the company had risen and eaten quickly, exchanging short words and quick looks. Jaxson gave Boaz a lazy two-finger salute.

“Try not to upset the entire council. Just most of them.”

“We’ll hold what we can out here,” Lyra added, slinging her pack over one shoulder.

“And if we get reassigned to the latrine lines,” Theo muttered, “I’m blaming politics.”

“You were born for it,” Kiera said, grinning as she pushed him after the others.

The hall emptied, the last bootsteps echoing against the stone. Boaz pulled his cloak around him, and this time, he didn’t tuck the Sigil beneath it. The iron lines gleamed dully on his chest, exposed, deliberate. The lone Aguan leaf, shaped from mother-of-pearl and memory, gleamed.

Merran gave a slow nod. “They’ll notice.”

“Good,” Boaz said. “Let them.”

Aldryn clasped a hand on Boaz’ uninjured shoulder. “Upper tier. Seven seats. More ego than wisdom. Speak from the truth and let the Sigil do the rest.”

Boaz glanced once at Thorne, who rose silently to pad at his side, tail flicking. “Time to remind them what unity looks like.”

The inner wards of Cirol were nothing like the rest of the city. Here, the streets were swept, the stonework tight and clean, and the buildings rose in graceful tiers of arched balconies and tiled eaves. Though smoke still drifted faintly from the outer wards, it hadn’t stained the alabaster walls here. Guards stood straighter. Doors bore intricate carvings, not soot. Even under siege, power had its refuge.

Boaz felt every footstep like a hammer strike. He kept his shoulders squared, his face calm, but inside, his thoughts scrambled. He was no noble. No commander. Just a boy from a village whose name most here wouldn’t know, carrying a symbol he didn’t fully understand, walking toward a room filled with people who’d likely dismiss him before he opened his mouth. “Are they all like this?” he muttered, glancing at the polished archways and quiet fountains.

Aldryn snorted. “The ones who live here? Absolutely.” Nevara gave a low croak on his shoulder, as if in agreement.

Boaz exhaled, long and steady. “I shouldn’t be the one talking to them.”

“Too late,” Aldryn said. “And anyway, I’ve seen you speak when it matters. Just pretend they’re bellows and you’re shaping iron.”

Boaz frowned. “What does that even mean?”

They passed through a heavily barred inner gate, flanked by a dozen soldiers with embossed helms and silver-trimmed cloaks. One stepped forward, saw Aldryn, and waved them through without a word.

Beyond the gate, the Council Hall rose from the heart of the city like a crown. A circular structure of pale stone and glass, its highest ring had clear panes in the ceiling, and was rimmed with statues. Some of kings, some of warriors, none Boaz recognized.

As they climbed the marble steps, Merran’s breathing grew heavier, but he did not slow. His eyes scanned everything: guard placements, line of sight, possible exits. He said nothing. Boaz swallowed hard. His palms were sweating. His stomach felt like it had shrunk to the size of a coin.

Aldryn slowed beside him. “You’re scared,” he said, not unkindly.

Boaz nodded. “Terrified.”

“Good. If you weren’t, you’d be arrogant. Or stupid. Both are fatal in politics.” They reached the top step. Twin oak doors, carved with curling vines and scenes of old treaties, stood closed. Aldryn turned to him. “Let them see what you are. Not what they expect. Speak plainly, stand firm, and, most importantly, don’t punch anyone.”

Boaz raised an eyebrow. “That happened once,” Aldryn muttered. “It was a long meeting.” Nevara croaked again.

Merran stepped up beside them. “They will not like me either,” he said. “But they need to see me. See us.”

Boaz glanced at the Sigil resting across his chest. No glow, no hum, just iron, worn and waiting. “Let’s do this,” he said.

The doors opened without sound. A steward in dark robes stepped aside as the great oak panels swung inward, revealing a circular chamber of stone and sunlight. The ceiling above was framed by soaring columns that let in the cold, pale light of morning. The room smelled faintly of cedar and ink.

At the far end, seven councilors sat behind a semicircular dais, each chair carved with a different crest. Boaz recognized none of them. Their robes were finely tailored, their faces guarded. Only one, a sharp-eyed, older woman with some silver in her braids, watched with any interest as they approached.

“Thalenya,” Aldryn had said. “If anyone still listens, it will be her.” A clerk announced them in a voice just loud enough to echo: “Aldryn Quell of the Western Vale. Boaz, companion of the warden fellowship. Merran of the Aguan people.” No titles. No flourishes.

Boaz’s boots rang too loudly on the polished stone as they crossed the floor. He could feel their eyes on him, assessing, measuring. He kept his back straight and resisted the urge to fidget with the Sigil. It already rested plainly against his chest, dull iron against worn wool.

They reached the center of the chamber. There was no seat offered. For a moment, no one spoke. Then a portly man in sea-blue robes leaned forward and steepled his fingers.

“We were not expecting… visitors from the outer wards today. Much less ones bearing… old relics.”

“You weren’t expecting a siege either,” Aldryn said, deadpan.

The room shifted. One of the younger councilors, a narrow-faced man with too many rings, scowled. “You presume much, Aldryn. If you’ve come to sling barbs…”

“If I’d come to sling barbs,” Aldryn cut in, “you’d already be bleeding. We came to speak. You should listen.”

Boaz stepped forward before the tension could rise further. His voice felt too loud in his throat. “I’m not here to shame anyone. And I’m not a noble. I don’t have armies or wealth. But I’ve walked through your wards. I’ve seen the fear in your streets. And I’ve stood on your walls.”

He let the words hang for a breath. No interruptions yet.

“You all know the enemy waits outside. But the real danger is inside. You aren’t united. Your captains follow different orders. Your walls are strong, but your will is fractured.” Some of them stiffened. Others looked to Thalenya.

She tilted her head, watching Boaz with something between curiosity and caution. “And what would you suggest?” she asked. “That we hand over command to an outsider? A blacksmith’s son?”

Boaz didn’t flinch. “I don’t want command. I want you to lead together. Like you’re supposed to. The Sigil,” he touched it lightly, “it’s not just a symbol. It’s a reminder. That we only survive when we stand as one.”

A silence followed, deeper than before. Even the wind above had gone still. Then another councilor, a pale woman in a fur-lined collar, snorted softly. “Pretty words. But unity won’t hold the gates.”

“No,” Boaz said. “But division will open them.” He let that settle.

Across the dais, Thalenya’s mouth twitched. Not a smile, but not a frown either. “What you ask,” she said slowly, “is not simple. Old alliances, old grudges…”

“You need to set them aside,” Merran said, stepping forward for the first time. His voice was quiet but clear. “If the Aguan can send one of our own to help you defend your stone city, you can share power for a few days.”

More silence. Then Aldryn, folding his arms: “You’ve heard from a blacksmith’s son, a lake-dweller, and a half-dead wizard. What more do you need to prove you’re out of options?”

That, at last, drew a faint chuckle from Thalenya. She looked at her fellow councilors, one brow rising. “I say we hear them out.” And that’s where the shift began.

The chamber stayed silent for a beat too long; long enough for Boaz to feel the weight of every eye on him. Then the man in the sea-blue robes, Councilor Belvar, by the crest behind his seat, leaned forward again, scowling. “So you come here with a relic and a plea for unity. Do you even know what it costs to defend a city? Have you ever commanded anything larger than a forge fire?”

Boaz didn’t rise to it. He kept his voice calm. “No. But I’ve buried people who died because someone else didn’t.” That silenced Belvar, but only for a breath.

Another voice chimed in: Councilor Vettan, the ring-laden man. “You speak of unity like it’s a torch we’ve misplaced. But this council isn’t divided out of malice, it’s structure. Tradition. The East Tower belongs to House Carnes. The South Wall to Lord Grett. We cannot change that overnight.”

Boaz stepped forward, slowly. “Then don’t. But agree to one command for the siege. One chain of communication. Not six nobles pulling six directions while people die under them.”

“And who would you have lead that?” Vettan asked. “You?”

Boaz almost said ‘no’, but held his peace.

The room went still again, too still. A flicker passed over the Sigil at his chest. No one saw it, not truly, but something in the room’s rhythm shifted. The dismissive tone dulled. The contempt that laced Vettan’s words seemed to crack, just slightly.

Instead of scoffing, the next voice, a soft-spoken woman with weathered hands, asked: “If not you, then who?” That wasn’t sarcasm. It was genuine.

Boaz hesitated. “I don’t care who wears the badge. I care that the walls don’t fall while the leaders argue.”

“It’s easy to speak of unity,” muttered a narrow-faced councilor named Hedwin, “when you’re not the one who must negotiate between bitter enemies. Some of us remember blood feuds that began in this very room.”

Merran stepped forward, his cloak brushing stone. “Then let them remember something else.” Hedwin blinked. “Let them remember that once, in the time of the Sundering, the city stood for all people. Even ours.” Merran gestured to his chest, his gills faintly flaring. “I am here. Willing to help. And my people have not forgotten what unity costs.” The room fell quiet again.

Near the dais, Thalenya leaned back slightly, her eyes moving from face to face, not trying to dominate the conversation, just letting the silence do its work. Boaz felt something stir in the chamber. A tension easing. No glow, no hum, but every voice that followed was calmer. Less performative.

Even Hedwin’s next retort came slower, more measured. “And what would you have us do? Sign a pact in blood?”

“Sign a plan in ink,” Boaz replied. “Choose someone you all trust. Give them temporary authority to coordinate. A warden. A captain. Someone neutral.”

“And if we can’t agree?” Belvar asked.

“Then pick someone none of you like equally,” Aldryn offered helpfully. “That usually works.”

A few councilors, Thalenya among them, smirked. The tension broke a little more. Boaz stepped back, letting the moment breathe. “The enemy’s not waiting. The next wave will come, and it won’t care who commands the towers.”

The Sigil pulsed once, not with light, but with weight. Something in Boaz’s posture drew attention again. The councilors looked, not at his face, but at the emblem he wore. They didn’t know what it meant. But they knew it mattered.

Thalenya tapped her fingers once on the stone arm of her seat. “Let’s draft a provisional chain of command. One voice for each quadrant of the city. Reports to be shared hourly. And…” she looked to Boaz, then Aldryn, “…we will accept advisory input from those risking their lives on the walls.” She glanced to the others. “Objections?”

There were none.

“Then we begin. Now.”

The chamber emptied in quiet waves: advisors, scribes, and councilors vanishing behind carved doors, leaving only echoes and the cold drift of snow from the open oculus above. Boaz stood alone in the circle of stone, heart still pounding, the Sigil cool against his chest. They had listened. Not all enthusiastically, and not without pushback, but they had listened.

Aldryn stepped up beside him, hands folded behind his back, surveying the empty chamber like a man deciding if a tavern had been worth the coin. “Well,” he said dryly, “no one called for your arrest. I’d call that a win.”

Boaz let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I thought I was going to stumble over every word.”

“You did,” Aldryn said, then after a beat, added, “But you stumbled with conviction and truth. That’s rare enough in this room to get results.”

Boaz managed a quiet laugh. “Did it… actually work?”

“Worked well enough that half of them looked surprised when they agreed with you.”

Nevara circled once overhead, then glided down to land on a ledge above them. Merran approached from where he’d stood near the shadows, hands clasped before him.

“They will not say it, but you shifted something,” Merran said. “Even the ones who glared at you… they looked different by the end.”

Boaz touched the Sigil lightly, eyes still on the empty seats. “I felt… steady. Like I knew what I was doing. Even when I didn’t.”

Aldryn tilted his head. “The Sigil’s not magic in the way most people think. It doesn’t put words in your mouth. It just clears space for the right ones to get through.”

Boaz looked at him. “So it was me?”

“It was the best version of you,” Aldryn replied. “Which, incidentally, is the only version, in anyone, worth following.” For a few heartbeats, they stood in silence. Boaz let himself breathe. The city had not changed overnight. But it had started to. Then the chamber doors creaked open again, and a steward stepped in, flushed and breathless.

“My lords, urgent word from the north wall. Scouts report movement. A large force, fast moving. They’ll be here in under an hour.”

Boaz nodded, instinct rising. Aldryn turned, adjusting his cloak. “Time to see if unity works under pressure.”

Merran was already moving toward the door. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Lyra stood at the wall’s northern edge, her blade drawn, resting across her shoulder. She stared out over the field, watching the Tulogan emerge from the trees, ranks of them, shields up, spears lowered, eyes wild. The ground beneath the wall shuddered.

“They’re not pretending this time,” she said. “They’re marching like they’ve already won.”

A beat later, something enormous moved behind the front line. The trees parted again, wider this time, and a massive shape heaved into view: a creature armored in scrap iron and bone, its shoulders broader than a siege tower, its eyes like burning coals.

Gasps rippled across the wall. A nearby sergeant, grizzled and bent at the spine but still sharp-eyed, cursed softly under his breath. “Saints preserve us… That’s a Gorthan.”

Lyra turned. “A what?”

“Siege beast,” he muttered, voice grim. “Tulogan breed them deep in their stone-warrens. Ugly as sin and twice as strong. Meant to break gates and scatter lines. I saw one tear through a village wall during the border wars. Took five spear lines to drop it, and three of those didn’t walk away.”

“Is it smart?” Theo asked from below, eyes narrowed.

“Not exactly. But it’s angry. And worse, obedient.”

Kiera stepped up beside them, wiping blood from her hands with a cloth gone pink at the edges. She had been tending the wounded all day. “Tell me we have something that can stop that.”

“We have hope,” the sergeant muttered. “And you lot.”

Jaxson rolled his shoulder, checking his sword’s edge. “Well then. Time to make hope work for us.”

A horn sounded, sharp and commanding, from the tower center. “Archers… ready!” The defenders surged into motion. No longer panicked. No longer aimless. The Sigil’s unifying ripple effect had reached them, though they didn’t know it. Orders passed cleanly, crews moved with purpose, and the wall held its breath.

The Tulogan war drums began to beat. And the Gorthan roared.

The Tulogan surged like a wave of iron and fury. Their war drums pounded faster: a rhythm meant to unsettle, not coordinate. The roar of hundreds rolled up the slope toward Cirol’s northern wall.

“Loose!” came the cry. The archers fired, a dark arc of arrows falling into the ranks below. Scores found targets, but it was like piercing water. The Tulogan didn’t slow, but fired back in a hail of arrows and bolts. On the wall, Jaxson shouted over the din, organizing the second volley.

“Drop and reload! Line two, step forward!” The motion wasn’t perfect, but it was clean. The defenders responded. Orders were followed.

Down the line, Lyra met the first ladder with steel. Her blade danced, sharp and efficient. She kicked the ladder away with a booted heel, sending it crashing back into the crowd below. Another ladder slammed into the wall. More climbed.

Near the tower base, Kiera crouched beside a wounded guard. Her hands glowed faintly, blood seeping through her sleeves. “Hold still,” she ordered. Her voice was tight, focused. She muttered a quiet word, and the gash began to close. “Get to cover. Now.”

The man staggered to his feet, amazed at the healing, and limped away. Another was brought forward immediately. “Arrow through the side,” someone barked.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “You, press on that wound. Hard.” A Tulogan had scaled the wall near her. She turned, with no hesitation, and brought her mace down hard. The warrior collapsed, unmoving. She didn’t wait to see if he rose again, and went back to the fallen soldier.

Meanwhile Theo crouched near the ballista platform, pointed with a piece of chalk already half-worn down. “Aim low, left support. Fire now!” The siege crew hesitated, but fired. The bolt hit the enemy’s ram cart dead-on, shattering one of its wheels. The momentum staggered, and the ram veered off course. “Reload immediately,” Theo ordered. “That gave us twenty seconds. Use it.”

The Gorthan emerged.

It shook the ground with every step. Armor lashed from bone and rusted iron clanked across its massive body. Its tusks had been plated in black steel. Its handler barked guttural commands, and the beast responded with a ground-shaking bellow. “Incoming siege beast!” Lyra shouted. “Brace the gate!” Soldiers scrambled. One dropped a spear in panic.

“Leave it!” Boaz shouted. “Form up behind the gate!” He vaulted from the parapet and landed beside a group of pikemen. “Oil and fire, left flank. Hold until my call!”

The Gorthan charged forward, intent on breaking the gate. Ballista bolts hit its side, one burying deep near its shoulder. It howled, but didn’t stop. A firepot crashed at its feet. Another ignited beneath its belly. It shrieked, partially blinded by smoke, but kept coming. The beast hit the outer gate with a sound like thunder. Wood cracked. Dust rained down. A defender screamed and fell. Still, it did not breach.

“Hold!” Boaz roared. “We break, we die! HOLD!” They held. Smoke rolled over the wall. The Gorthan stomped again, slower this time: wounded, not dead. Its handler screamed another order.

The Gorthan slammed into the outer gate with a shattering crack that split the air like a cannon blast. Timber screamed. The wall quivered. A length of the upper brace cracked loose and rained splinters down on the defenders. Two guards were thrown from their posts. One didn’t rise.

“Shields up!” Boaz roared, his voice cutting through the din like a bell. “Reinforce the gate braces! Archers, aim for the handler!”

Theo spun, shouting to a nearby squad. “You three, with me! We can cut off its line of command!”

Another blow from the Gorthan. The hinges groaned. Dust and ash flared into the air. A pike line faltered. “Hold the formation!” Jaxson barked. He kicked a dropped shield toward a wide-eyed recruit. “Pick it up or find another wall!”

Ballistae fired. One bolt slammed into the beast’s flank and shattered. Another lodged under its arm. It roared in rage and turned, slamming its tusks into the parapet. Masonry flew. Two men screamed as they were hurled from the wall.

Boaz vaulted up the stairwell toward the siege platform. His legs burned, lungs searing, but he kept going. The Sigil against his chest felt heavier than iron now, not just in weight, but in gravity. Eyes turned to him. Orders passed faster. Crews moved without waiting for confirmation. Unity wasn’t just requested, it was happening.

Below, Lyra climbed onto the back of a ram cart that had crashed against the wall. She slashed ropes, freeing a cache of firepots. “Light these up!” she called. “Aim for the beast’s underbelly if you can!”

The Gorthan reared, flames licking across its plated chest. It charged again. The gate bent. A hinge popped loose with a shriek. A defender tried to run; Boaz snapped, “Stay with your unit! If we fall here, there’s nowhere left to run!” The man dutifully fell back in line.

Another volley. This time, a bolt struck deep into the beast’s jaw, jerking its head to the side. Blood sprayed. It snarled, wounded, but enraged. Theo pointed again. “New target! Front left leg joint! Collapse it!”

A crew adjusted, fired. The bolt struck true, and the Gorthan buckled for a breath, but then surged forward with renewed fury. It rammed the gate again. This time, the center beam cracked.

Boaz grabbed a torch and ran to the oil line. “Drench the kill zone!” he yelled. Flames erupted below. The Gorthan roared and stomped, smoke searing its eyes. But still, it didn’t stop.

Then came the final strike: not from a weapon, but from coordination.

“Ballista, brace!” Theo shouted.

“Flank fire ready!” Kiera called from the next tower.

Boaz stepped into the smoke, raised his sword high, and shouted, “NOW!”

The sky split with screaming bolts. Two ballistae hit the creature’s neck. One firepot exploded beneath it. A last spear line charged from cover, driving pikes beneath the plating near its ribs.

The Gorthan gave a broken, hollow roar, part beastly, part fury, and collapsed, crashing sideways into the gate itself. A shockwave of dust and noise tore through the defenders.

And then — silence. For just a moment, the battlefield paused.

The Tulogan staggered. Their line wavered, not broken, not yet, but unsure. Boaz didn’t wait. “Regroup!” he shouted. “Reinforce the gate! They’re not finished!”

Orders snapped down the line. Crews surged into motion, dragging up barricades and broken timbers to shore the ruins of the inner gate. Kiera and a pair of field medics pulled the wounded from beneath a shattered parapet. Jaxson rallied what was left of the northern flank.

But then the Tulogan roared. Dozens more stormed forward, howling past their fallen beast. Whether out of rage or desperation, it didn’t matter: they came in a blood-mad rush.

“Archers!” Boaz bellowed. “Nock and fire!” A volley rained down, cutting through the first wave. Still they came.

Lyra met them at the breach with a borrowed pike, plunging it through the chest of the first warrior. She spun to cover her flank as another leapt the rubble. “Jaxson, I need that line now!”

“I’m here!” he shouted, crashing into the breach with a half-circle of defenders. Their formation was ragged, but it held.

Theo, eyes scanning from the tower, pointed down. “They’re trying to flank west; third ladder crew, move to intercept!”

“Already on it!” called the ward captain nearby, shouting orders without waiting for confirmation.

It was no longer a coordinated siege. It was a brawl: chaotic, desperate. But the defenders were united now. Walls were held not just by steel, but by trust.

Boaz fought alongside them: blocking a blow here, rallying a broken line there. The Sigil burned like ice against his chest, every heartbeat drawing eyes and attention. No one hesitated when he spoke. No one questioned his place.

At the breach, a Tulogan with a scorched helm hurled a torch toward the inner courtyard, hoping to ignite it.

Boaz didn’t think. He dove, caught it mid-air, and slammed it into the cobblestones. Flames licked up his sleeve. He rolled, smothering it, then rose, breathless. The Tulogan hesitated in shock, and was cut down by Merran’s thrown blade.

The fighting ebbed. Then — horns, from the Tulogan lines. Retreat signals, sharp and shrill. The enemy broke.

Not all at once, but in pockets, pulling back through smoke and blood. Some still fought to cover the withdrawal. Others limped, dragging wounded. One threw his sword at the wall in rage and frustration.

And slowly, Cirol’s wall went quiet.

The defenders held the line for a long minute, weapons still raised, breaths coming in ragged gasps. The fires crackled low. Groans of the wounded mixed with the grinding of gears as siege crews reset for another round that didn’t come.

Boaz lowered his sword slowly. His arm trembled from fatigue, but he didn’t let it show. Around him, the wall looked more like a ruin than a fortification. Stone was blackened, timbers shattered, the courtyard slick with blood and oil. And yet, they had held.

He turned and climbed the steps to the upper rampart again, alone now, needing air. The climb felt longer than it should have. When he reached the top, he rested his hands on the scorched stone and looked out.

Beyond the city, the battlefield was a churned-up wasteland. Tulogan warbands withdrew into the tree line, dragging their dead and wounded with them. Their banners fluttered low, no longer bold, but frayed and stained. A few scouts remained in the shadows, just beyond bow range, watching.

Boaz’s chest ached. The Sigil pressed against him, warm now, comforting, almost. But it couldn’t shield him from the weight of what was coming.

This had only been the first wave.

From somewhere below, orders were barked, bodies moved, defenses restructured. But for a moment, atop that battered wall, Boaz allowed himself stillness. He watched, listened, and waited. Then came the sound of boots on stone: light, hurried.

He turned as a voice called up. “Sir? You’re Boaz, right?”

A young officer, barely more than a boy, climbed the stairs to the overlook. His helmet was askew, blood drying on one sleeve. He stopped on the top step, straightened, and saluted: not as a reflex, but with intent.

“Sir, I saw you in the council chamber this morning; I’m not much more than a courier to the council members there. I didn’t know what to expect when I heard you speak with them. But…” He glanced toward the ruined gate. “Orders are holding. Commanders are cooperating. Council signatures came through without argument. We’re reinforcing the west gate now, per revised command structure.” He hesitated. “We’re starting to think we can win this.”

Boaz nodded once. “Good. Thank you.” The boy saluted again, then jogged back down the steps, a little steadier than before.

Boaz watched the boy disappear into the fog that curled between the towers. Somewhere behind him, a woman sobbed, low and private. Somewhere else, someone laughed too hard at something that wasn’t funny. Survivors did strange things.

He gripped the stone edge of the wall and let his breath settle. His hands were still shaking.

“You did well,” Aldryn said, stepping beside him again.

Boaz gave a tight nod. “Then why do I feel like I just survived something I wasn’t ready for?”

“Because you did.” Aldryn’s voice was softer now, almost fatherly. “But that’s the secret no one tells you; no one’s ready. Not really.” He tapped the Sigil with one finger. “That thing may be ancient, but it doesn’t carry the weight for you.”

Boaz ran a thumb along the metal’s edge. “I didn’t know what to say. In the council, out here… it’s like I’ve been waiting for someone else to step up, Cayden, maybe, or you — and I keep realizing I seem to be the first one that people are looking to.”

“That’s the job,” Aldryn said. “You don’t wear the Sigil because you’re already whole. You wear it because you’re trying to be, and trying to allow them to be.”

Boaz let those words hang there.

Merran had joined them again, quietly. He leaned against the wall, not like a soldier, but like a man who had seen too much, and still came anyway. “The city saw something important today,” he said. “They will remember it.”

“What, that we almost lost a gate?” Boaz asked.

“No,” Merran replied. “That we didn’t, even under such circumstances, with forgotten beast out of folklore.”

Boaz was silent a while longer. He looked toward the western gate, where torches flickered as troops moved into new positions. The snow had eased. It hadn’t accumulated, but it was colder now. It seems no one could remember when it had started snowing. The smoke thinned.

And through it all, Cirol held, for now. Boaz stepped back from the wall. “I need to rest,” he said at last. “Before dawn comes looking for another speech.”

“Get what you can,” Aldryn muttered. “The way things are going, you’ll be addressing the High Council and organizing soup kitchens before week’s end.”

“They’d better hope I’m not cooking.”

That earned the faintest snort from Merran.

The three of them descended from the tower as the first stars broke through the thinning smoke. There were more battles to come soon and the city breathed a sigh of relief. It held together. For now.

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