Kestel’s cry came first: sharp, wheeling over the north wall like a thrown blade. Jaxson arrived moments later, boots skidding slightly on the stone. “We’ve got movement,” he said, breath short. “Northeast treeline. Three full Tulogan companies, maybe more.” Everyone turned.

“They’re not digging,” he added, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “They’re clearing trees. Dragging them aside. Kestel spotted two siege towers under construction. Ramps too. Looks like they’re carving a straight shot toward the inner wall.”

Boaz stepped forward beside him, squinting toward the distant tree line. “They’re preparing to breach.”

Theo gave a low grunt and leaned over the wall’s edge. “Smart. They’ll use the siege towers to land on the outer ring, and the infantry to funnel us through the broken gap.”

Aldryn whistled through his teeth. “Siege towers and Tulogan heavy infantry. Classic play. You crush the spirit first, then the stone.”

“They’re coming to finish it,” Kiera said softly, her hand pressed to the rough stone for balance. “We held last night, but they mean to shatter us before dusk.”

Lyra’s eyes flicked side to side, calculating. “They’ll hit in less than an hour. Maybe two, if they’re cautious. Either way, we need oil, firepots, and fletched arrows ready before they’re in range.”

“They’ll bring archers on those towers,” said Jaxson, “and a platform to drop troops right over the wall. Like flooding a bowl.”

Boaz’s jaw tensed. “Then we don’t let them flood it.”

Merran, quiet until now, lifted his head. “If they want fire, maybe we give them fog.” That drew a few glances. “I’ve a bit more of the lake left,” he said, tapping the small flask secured at his side. “Could blind them before they ever hit the inner gates.”

Aldryn raised a brow. “You sure you’ve got the strength for it?”

“I’ll manage,” Merran said, voice dry. “I’ve managed this long.”

Theo gave a nod, already running calculations in his head. “I can anchor two larger constructs near the breach. They’ll hold even if we’re forced to fall back.”

“Get them in place,” said Boaz.

He turned to Kiera. “Can you spare anyone from the healers? We’ll need as many here as possible to help bring the wounded away from the front line.”

“I’ll try,” she said. “But most are still elbow-deep in the wounded from the last wave. I’ll be here and ready, though.”

Jaxson looked up as Kestel wheeled low overhead. “I’ll make another pass east, see if they’re hiding anything worse in the trees.”

“I’ll come too,” said Lyra, stretching her arms. “If they’re bold enough to march siege towers, they might be bold enough to flank.”

Boaz took one last look at the treeline, where plumes of dust and falling tree limbs marked the siege crews at work.

“They’re coming,” he said. “But we’ll be more ready this time.”

No one spoke for a beat. Then Aldryn cracked a wry smile. “Well then. Best put the kettle on.”

The stone hallway beneath the north barracks was crowded but hushed. Candlelight flickered against cracked walls, throwing long shadows over the makeshift infirmary. The supply stations and mess lines were each tucked into corners and alcoves as if hiding from the thunder outside.

Boaz ducked through a low archway and paused, taking it in. A boy no older than ten sat in a corner near the fire, polishing a dented breastplate twice his size with a rag. An older woman, perhaps his grandmother, sewed a torn banner with trembling hands, lips moving silently. The air smelled of dried herbs, sweat, and boiled leather. From somewhere deeper, a child cried out, the sound sharp before it was muffled by a soothing voice.

Theo crouched beside a crate of gears, murmuring adjustments to one of his small golems. The creature clicked and chattered like a mechanical squirrel, hopping from foot to foot while Marra and Tobbit watched in rapt silence, eyes wide. When it turned and bowed to them, Tobbit clapped his hands.

“Think they’ll attack again?” Marra whispered.

Theo gave a nonchalant shrug. “They will.”

“Then what’s he doing?” she asked, nodding toward Boaz.

Boaz had knelt beside a young man whose arm was bound in a crude sling. His face was pale, drawn tight with pain. Boaz spoke quietly, hand on the man’s shoulder, not with promise, but with presence.

“He’s reminding us we’re not alone,” Theo said.

Kiera moved from cot to cot, her palms aglow with soft gold. Not every wound could be healed, but her presence steadied the room. Her owl, Eira, perched high on a rafter beam, unmoving, like a sentinel in feathered robes.

Aldryn appeared with a kettle in one hand and a battered cup in the other. “It’s not tea,” he said, offering it to Merran. “But it’ll burn your insides enough to count.”

Merran took the cup without comment, his eyes distant. He hadn’t spoken much since his earlier fog, but there was something firmer in his stance now.

The clatter of boots echoed overhead: soldiers moving to stations. Lyra stepped into the barracks, hair braided back, longsword glinting. “One hour until they’re at our walls, so Captain Darrin says.”

Boaz nodded. “We have to make use of every minute until then. I feel like this is a critical day for us.”

Lyra glanced around at the quiet motion, the wounded, the ones too old or too young to bear arms but who still labored. “They’ll come,” she said. “And we’ll be ready.”

And for a moment, the stillness in the stone seemed to listen. Not silence born of fear, but of resolve: the kind that grows in hard places.

The sun strained to break through the smoke. From Cirol’s inner north wall, the courtyard below was a ruin of churned earth and broken stone. The outer wall, half-collapsed, no longer served as a barrier: only as cover for the enemy’s advance. Fallen bodies and scorched barricades littered the space between.

Then, silence. Heat shimmered from the ground near the far treeline.

A shape emerged, taller than any man, cloaked in distortion. With each step, the grass withered beneath his feet, and the air seemed to flee his presence.

Aldryn’s face hardened. “So the Flamewalker endures. Maeroth.”

Boaz didn’t turn. “You’ve met?”

“We traded spells once. It cost a village.”

Maeroth raised a black arm.

From the shadow of the trees came a new formation, tight ranks of Tulogan elites, disciplined and grim. Their armor was darkened steel, etched with runes, tusks capped in iron. Behind them came Handlers and Fallen, swift and silent, blades fused into bone. And trailing just behind them: Grimboldt. Unlike before, they moved in coordinated packs, hunched and sniffing like hounds. One barked a guttural call, and the rest followed, eyes glowing like furnace coals.

Aldryn cursed under his breath. “They’ve learned.”

Boaz scanned the defenders lining the inner wall. Shields ready, arrows nocked. No panic, only readiness. The courtyard would be the battlefield now.

Above, Kestel shrieked once and banked sharply. Jaxson shaded his eyes. “They’re flanking. Kestel sees movement west!” A second horn sounded, from the city’s western quadrant.

A panting officer arrived seconds later. “They’ve breached near the west gate! Smaller force, but fast. We’re splitting in two!”

Boaz didn’t hesitate. “Kiera! Jaxson! Take some men and reinforce the west!”

“Don’t get killed before I get back,” Jaxson muttered, already moving. Kestel vanished toward the western sky.

Kiera followed with a grim nod, her healing satchel already slung over one shoulder. “Don’t wait up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Boaz replied.

The moment they disappeared down the stairwell, Maeroth struck. A wave of fire cracked across the battlefield: real fire, drawn from somewhere deeper than any forge. It tore through the air and crashed against Cirol’s inner defenses, scattering sparks and men alike.

“Brace!” Aldryn roared.

The Tulogan surged from the courtyard’s edge, using the rubble of the outer wall for cover. Arrows fell on them, but their shields held firm. The Fallen leapt the gaps behind them, scaling the base of the broken wall with inhuman speed.

Boaz raised his sword and pointed forward. “Stand your ground! Reinforcements, form a third line!”

And they came, not villagers with pitchforks, but trained Cirol guards from the southern and eastern walls, moving in lockstep, armor gleaming, banners flaring in the firelight. They fanned out behind him, grim and ready.

Theo’s golems marched just behind them, no longer mere constructs, but partners in defense. One intercepted a falling Tulogan with a calculated pivot and slammed it aside with a stone fist.

Lyra phased across the battle front, illusions flaring like flashes of light. She left multiple versions of herself darting through the chaos, drawing confusion and missteps from the attackers.

Merran appeared at Boaz’s side, clutching the last of his Lake Evenwell water flask. “Time for some chaos, blindness, and confusion.” For the second time, Merran emptied the rest of the flask of Lake Evenwell water onto the ground, murmuring words unknown to Boaz as he did so. As before, the fog sprang up from the ground, and worked its way through the ranks for the attackers, confusing them.

Beside him, Boaz prepared his spell, and a burst of flame erupted from the edge of his pointed sword, arcing across the courtyard. It struck a Grimboldt mid-lunge, even as the fog reached it. The beast convulsed, twisted, then burst into ash as its corrupted flesh rejected the fire’s purity.

The defenders roared. The battle was here, now, in the breach, on the walls, within the city’s teeth. It was not poetry. It was grit, shield to shield, spell to steel.

From the broken shell of a watchtower beyond the courtyard, Maeroth watched, arms folded, unmoving. His mere presence seemed to pull the air taut, as if reality itself strained to hold its shape.

But Cirol’s defenders held the line. And they would not give ground.

The western gate was old stone, tucked between two watchtowers whose creaking joints hadn’t seen combat in a century. A ceremonial entrance, never meant for war. Now, Tulogan warbands swarmed beneath it.

Jaxson peered down from the rampart. “Ladders. Dozens.”

Kiera joined him, eyes narrowing. “Gate’s too thin. If they breach, the whole western and southern quarters are open.”

She turned. “Archers! If you see one scaling a ladder, drop them before they reach the top. Form up! Don’t let them get a foothold.” The defenders scrambled into place, only a dozen on this section of wall. Weary, bloodied, too few. But determined.

Kestel circled above with a shrill cry and then dove, a warning. The Tulogan roared and surged forward. Long iron-shod ladders slammed into the wall with brutal precision.

“They’re coordinated,” Jaxson muttered. “Not like before.”

“Let’s make them pay for every rung,” Kiera replied grimly.

One ladder creaked under the weight of climbing Tulogan. A defender tried to push it free, but it was anchored now, tight and deliberate. Jaxson dashed across the parapet and hurled a weighted hook. It caught one ladder and yanked it off balance, toppling three climbers.

Another ladder slammed into place. Then another. Arrows whistled from the defenders, knocking some Tulogan off, quickly being replaced by others.

“Here they come!” someone shouted. The first Tulogan crested the wall and was met with a blade to the throat. Another ducked past and swung at a guard, who barely deflected the blow.

Kiera raised her mace high, its head glowing faintly with healing light: not a weapon, but a ward. She planted herself between two wounded men and a Tulogan. “I’ve got you,” she said, her voice steady.

Light pulsed outward in gentle waves. It didn’t burn. It didn’t blind. But hands stopped shaking. Backs straightened. One defender with a gashed shoulder found the strength to lift his shield again. Kiera gritted her teeth. It cost her something. Each pulse drained her, but she held strong.

Jaxson danced like lightning, blade and boot working in tandem. “This is the wrong wall to climb!” he shouted as he knocked one Tulogan from the parapet. Kestel screeched again, diving to claw the eyes of another climber.

Then more defenders arrived: veterans from the Keep, charging up the inner stairs to reinforce the rampart. One of them gawked briefly at Kestel’s attack, then recovered and took his post beside Jaxson.

Bit by bit, the tide turned. Tulogan lost footing. Ladders were torn down. The gate held. When the last enemy fell, the forest fell quiet. Kiera leaned against the wall, breathing hard. A defender offered her a waterskin, and she nodded in thanks.

“That wasn’t a probing strike,” Jaxson said grimly.

“No,” she replied. “That was coordinated. And it won’t be the last.” But they’ve got enough defenders here now. We need to regroup with the others.”

At the remains of the north gate, smoke and ash hung over the inner courtyard like a shroud. The outer gate had long since fallen, reduced to twisted timber and rubble. Now, Cirol’s defenders braced behind the last true barrier, the thick stone of the inner north wall.

Boaz stood at its center, cloak torn, brow smeared with blood and soot. The Sigil at his chest glowed faintly through the grime, its lone leaf still glistening like pearl beneath the haze. Beside him, Thorne prowled, low and silent, hackles rising at each distant war horn.

Aldryn emerged from the inner stairwell, flanked by two young lieutenants. “The western gate was tested. They held, but barely.”

Boaz nodded. “We can’t afford to splinter again. Not with this front ready to break.”

Aldryn glanced to the north, where shadows stirred in the smoke: Handlers and Fallen, dozens of them, with red eyes gleaming and weapons drawn. Behind them, a line of Tulogan elite marched in eerie silence, two banners raised high: one black, one crimson.

“Maeroth’s vanguard,” Aldryn said under his breath. “They’re not testing us anymore.”

From his post near the gate, Theo stepped forward. His larger golems moved without command, two hulking stone creatures stationed like sentinels beside each choke point. One crouched low, acting as a ramp for archers behind it, the other shifted to intercept cracks in the line before any man could shout.

Boaz turned to his team. “We split again. Lyra—” he paused as she stepped beside him, flanked by three defenders cloaked in illusion, made to look like ten.

“Already working,” she said with a grin. “They think we have triple the numbers. Let’s make sure they keep thinking that.”

Boaz nodded and lifted his blade. “We hold this wall.” Thorne growled.

A flash of movement, then the first wave of Fallen charged through the smoke, hurling javelins, climbing debris, shrieking in tongues long dead. Tulogan followed close behind, their shields layered and spears gleaming.

Boaz braced himself at the front of the defenders, eyes locked on the advancing enemy. The courtyard was already chaos: clashing steel, shouts, the hiss of burning pitch. Yet in the din, he could feel the pulse of something more… something gathering.

Behind the enemy ranks, shadows loomed: Grimboldt and Fallen swarming toward the breach, while the siege towers landed on the unbroken parts of the outer walls. Defenders fired volleys of arrows, and soon hand-to-hand combat ensued as the attackers overwhelmed them with numbers landing on the wall. All the while, below in the courtyard, Tulogan elites moved with brutal, practiced coordination, hammering into Cirol’s failing shield wall like waves on stone.

They wouldn’t hold much longer. Beside him, Thorne snarled low, tense. Boaz pointed his sword forward, not in triumph, but in defiance. He lowered the tip, pointing it forward, and the Sigil at his chest flared.

The flame started at the hilt, a flicker, a whisper, then raced along the blade in a molten line until it exploded from the tip in a controlled arc, like a whip of fire. It swept down into the enemy ranks with a thunderclap, striking clean through two Tulogan and searing the ground behind them. The heat knocked others to their knees.

A moment of stunned silence followed. Then came the horn: sharp, familiar, and rising not from the walls but from within the city itself.

Boaz turned. A gate at the southern side of the inner wall burst open, and through it poured a force nobody had accounted for.

The Aguan.

Not a sea of bodies, but a sleek, swift company of forty warriors, clad in leather and lacquered riverstone. Their gill-lined necks flared as they emerged into open air, eyes narrowed against the smoke. At their head was a younger elder, armored in black-scaled leather and wielding a spear nearly as tall as himself. He gave no speech, just a guttural, high-pitched war cry that split the air.

“For Coralhaven!” someone shouted from their ranks.

“For the water and the leaf!” Merran roared beside Boaz, running the final distance and slamming his blade into a Tulogan shield-bearer.

The Aguan hit the Tulogan’s right flank like a net of teeth. They moved like predators: some crouched, weaving beneath swinging blades, others leaping from debris with long knives in both hands. Where the Tulogan were brute force, the Aguan were speed and control. Their weapons flashed in arcs of silver and black, crossbow bolts flying from their weapons. One darted between two Tulogan, slicing hamstrings, spinning, and flinging a fire pot into a Grimboldt’s open mouth before it could release its paralyzing stare.

Arrows flew overhead, but many missed. The Aguan were already moving into the battle more, vanishing into their next motion. Boaz watched them in awe. These were not fishermen. These were guardians of a realm no other race could claim. And today, they fought not for territory, but for unity. An Aguan scout joined Theo’s golems at the gate and shouted orders, their words surprisingly crisp and commanding.

The Tulogan began to falter. Their push wavered. A Grimboldt charged the new arrivals, but one Aguan, shorter and broader, darted beneath its swipe and leapt behind it. He hurled a tightly wrapped pouch of oil, then flung a torch onto its back. Flames blossomed, and the creature shrieked, spinning madly, striking its own allies before collapsing in a heap.

Boaz turned again to the breach. A final cluster of Tulogan were trying to rally, but Boaz would not give them the chance. He raised his sword once more, pointed directly at the enemy, and let the flame build. It surged down the blade, bursting from the tip in a line of fire that raced like a comet. The bolt struck the cobbled ground just behind the Tulogan vanguard, igniting a ring of heat that drove them forward, straight into the waiting blades of the Aguan and defenders. The enemy faltered, then retreated beyond bowshot of the outer gate, and turned and paused.

Shouts rose from the wall. The defenders surged.

Lyra’s illusions danced across the field, disorienting the last Grimboldt. Archers rained death with renewed precision as the last attackers ran to form up beyond the walls. Merran, breathing hard, took a moment beside Boaz and laughed, a sharp, exhausted bark.

“You see?” he said. “We swim best against the current.”

Boaz nodded, eyes on the last of the retreating Tulogan. “And we’re just getting started.”

A hush rippled through the gates and inner courtyard: not silence, but a subtle thinning of sound, like the world bracing for something it remembered only in nightmares. The ground shivered. A heat not born of flame but of corruption pressed in on all sides.

From the midst of the attackers stepped Maeroth.

He did not stride like a man but unfolded: a towering shape clad in silver-edged armor, skin like scorched bronze etched with runes that writhed and smoldered. The air around him warped, curving light and heat alike, distorting his form into something barely tethered to this world. His eyes fixed immediately on the courtyard’s heart.

Defenders faltered. Even those who had stood against Grimboldt and Tulogan instinctively recoiled. Some stumbled back. A few dropped weapons. The fog that Merran had conjured was swept away suddenly.

Only one man stepped forward. Aldryn Quell, robe torn and ash-streaked, hair whipped wild in the unnatural wind. The Sigil’s light caught in the lines of his face, and for a moment, he looked ancient, not in years, but in memory.

“So,” Aldryn murmured. “You’ve come to finish what you started in the Reaches.”

Maeroth said nothing. But the shadows thickened behind him, congealing like ink in water. His presence spoke through dread and pressure.

Aldryn’s eyes narrowed. “Still too afraid to speak aloud. Even after all these centuries, you’re just Vortannis’ blade.” He raised his hand. Flame spiraled upward from his fingers, not orange, but a cold silver-blue that flickered without heat. The ground trembled as the fire grew, surrounding him in a ring of light.

Maeroth surged forward, faster than something his size had a right to move. His blade was not metal, but bone fused with iron, its edges pulsing with unholy life.

They met in a clash that shattered the air.

The explosion knocked fighters from their feet. Stone cracked beneath them. Golems faltered. Even Boaz, standing above on the wall now, staggered from the ripple of force.

Aldryn held his ground, barely. Flame and shadow collided in bursts, their duel lighting the courtyard with strobing violence. When Maeroth struck, the air itself screamed. When Aldryn replied, the ground buckled as if trying to swallow the corruption whole. Then Maeroth feinted, and struck low. Aldryn gasped, stumbling back, blood spilling down his side. The fire wavered.

Maeroth raised his blade to finish it.

Aldryn’s eyes flashed. With a guttural cry, he slammed his palm against the stones and poured fire into the ground. The courtyard erupted, not in flame, but in blinding light. Every crack and flaw in the flagstones flared. Ancient wards reawakened, pushing Maeroth back a full stride. It didn’t harm him, but it halted him.

That was enough. Boaz and the others charged. Lyra and Merran led the Aguan forward, pressing into the renewed breach. The Sigil pulsed at Boaz’s chest.

Maeroth stepped back, not defeated, but denied.

Aldryn collapsed to one knee, coughing blood, his staff clattering beside him. “I held him,” he rasped. “Go… use it.”

And Boaz did.

Maeroth stepped through the waning firelight, shadow clinging to him like a mantle. Around him surged his elite: twisted Tulogan brutes, Fallen with gleaming bone armor, and malformed things barely recognizable as once-living. They closed in once again like a tide around the fractured courtyard.

Aldryn, still kneeling and clutching his wound, raised his voice with the last of his strength. “He’s bound to Vortannis by blood and flame. Break his command, and the army shatters.”

Boaz didn’t hesitate. He lifted his sword, not high, not with pomp, but with purpose. The Sigil flared on his chest, casting threads of pale mother-of-pearl light through the grime. Then he moved, not toward Maeroth alone, but with the others, each flowing into formation like they’d trained for this moment all their lives.

Lyra went first, vanishing into the dust. Moments later, three of her shimmered into view, illusions dancing through the field. The elite Tulogan hesitated, striking at ghosts. One caught nothing but air; another swung wildly, only to be impaled by one of Theo’s golems, which had circled behind without a sound.

Theo grinned fiercely and shouted commands. His golems now fought in pairs, one shielding while the other struck, acting on instinct as much as order. “We’ve got rhythm now, boys!”

From above, Kestel screamed, a piercing, spiraling cry that cut through the clamor. Jaxson darted through the broken terrain below, impossibly fast, his blades flashing. He struck joints and tendons, then vanished again before counterstrikes could land.

Tending to the wounded Aldryn, Kiera knelt, her hands glowing with a golden radiance. She had healed many already, the wounded lifted their heads, breathing easier. But her magic did more than mend, it inspired. Each touch seemed to fill the injured with resolve. One rose to his feet, armor soaked in blood, and rejoined the fray. Another kissed her hand, weeping, before limping forward with his shield high.

She stood at last, eyes fierce. “He fears unity,” she said aloud. “Let’s make him drown in it.”

Maeroth raised his hand and sent a pulse of darkness crackling outward. Lyra’s illusions flickered. Theo’s golems froze for a heartbeat. But then… Boaz shouted. “Now!” He pointed his sword at Maeroth, and the flame answered.

A roaring bolt of fire burst from the blade’s tip, streaking across the courtyard like a spear. Maeroth raised a gauntlet: too slow. The fire caught his shoulder, staggered him, burned through the illusion of invincibility.

The company surged.

Lyra leapt from the shadows, blade meeting Maeroth’s weapon in a shower of sparks. Jaxson struck from the side, driving the demon back with relentless speed. Theo’s constructs battered away the elite Fallen pressing to his defense. Kiera’s magic pulsed across them all, not shielding, but connecting: a web of strength they could draw on.

And Boaz, he drove forward like a hammer, the Sigil glowing, each flame-blessed swing forcing Maeroth to retreat. Together, they overwhelmed him. Maeroth screamed, not in fear, but in fury, as the combined light of their efforts pushed him to the base of the ruined tower. He raised his blade for a final strike —

— but the Sigil flared, in the brightest flash ever, and he vanished in a burst of cracking air and smoke.

Silence rang. Smoke drifted.

Then a cheer rose: from defenders, from wounded, from those who had thought this day would be their last. Boaz looked to the others. Burned, bruised, panting.

They were still standing.

The moment Maeroth vanished, his army broke like glass.

Fallen shrieked, a sound raw and unnatural, and scattered into the trees like feral animals. The elite Tulogan, no longer driven by the demon’s will, faltered. One looked around in confusion, then threw down his axe and bolted. Another roared in defiance, swinging blindly, until two Aguan blades struck from either side, cutting him down with silent precision.

But it wasn’t only the warriors who faltered. Across the battlefield, the Handlers — those dark sorcerers who tethered the Fallen to their will — felt Maeroth’s absence like a blade through the soul. Their eyes flickered. Spells faltered. Their confidence wavered.

Directionless and alone, they reeled. Some tried to rally, to gather what remained of their corrupted minions, but the Fallen, unmoored, turned feral. Without guidance, they attacked anything that moved… including each other. In moments, chaos bloomed within the enemy ranks. A Handler near the east tower raised his staff and was torn apart by the very creature he once controlled.

Others fled, casting cloaking spells, vanishing into mist, or sprinting into the treeline, robes flapping like broken wings. One was caught by a well-aimed spear, his body crumpling in the courtyard as his shrieking Fallen froze, then collapsed beside him, lifeless and still.

The defenders didn’t hesitate. From the walls, horns blared. The gates creaked open, and out poured warriors, Huma, Agua, and the last reserve forces of Cirol. Merran was already ahead of them, moving with terrifying speed for a man who hadn’t touched his home water in a week. Behind him, Boaz, Jaxson, Lyra, and Theo joined the pursuit.

They moved not with vengeance, but with purpose. To drive the enemy out, to reclaim what was theirs.

Kestel soared overhead, relaying movements from the edge of the tree line. Thorne kept pace beside Boaz, fangs bared. Theo’s golems lumbered forward in formation, pushing fleeing Tulogan toward the waiting defenders. Lyra blinked in and out of sight, cutting down stragglers who turned to fight. And Jaxson danced between shadows, a whisper on the wind, his blades catching the last rays of the dying sun.

It wasn’t a battle anymore. It was a reckoning.

Back in the courtyard, Kiera knelt beside Aldryn. The old sorcerer was pale, his robes scorched and torn. Blood leaked slowly from beneath his hand. “You should be out there,” he rasped, attempting a smile. “Glory and all that.”

Kiera pressed a hand to his side, the golden light of her magic already stitching flesh beneath. “Glory can wait. You gave everything you had.”

His eyes flicked toward the gate. “So did they.”

She didn’t answer. She simply stayed: quiet, steady, a warmth against the gathering cold. Around them, defenders limped through the aftermath, some weeping, others calling out names. One young girl placed a hand on a wounded man’s shoulder, sobbing. Another helped a limping Aguan toward the wall.

From the ramparts, the last of the fleeing enemy could be seen melting into the forest, pursued by warriors who would not give chase for long. Cirol’s strength was spent. But the city stood.

And the sky, for the first time in days, was clear.

The last of the enemy vanished into the trees.

Cheers rose, first in the courtyard, then from the walls, then through the city itself like a rising tide. Men and women embraced, bloodied hands grasping shoulders, tears streaking through grime. Aguan blades clashed in salute, echoed by Huma fists against chests. For one long, breathless moment, Cirol stood together as one.

Boaz turned slowly, the Sigil dim now, but still warm against his chest.

Behind him, the gates of the city yawned open, and the broken field beyond stretched empty: no more roars, no more drums. Just smoke, silence, and the sun easing lower into a pale blue sky.

Thorne padded to his side and sat. They had held. Boaz did not yet know what the battle had cost them. But for now, just for this moment, Boaz let the weight settle. Let the truth of it press against his lungs.

They had stood against the darkness, and it had faltered. He closed his eyes… and let out a deep breath.

Leave feedback on this chapter