The second morning of the siege came with no sun.
Only the pale sheen of fractured moonlight filtered through the mist-shrouded clouds above Duskfall Reach. The moonslivers—fragments of Myrsel—glimmered like broken knives across the sky, their presence ever ominous, like watching eyes that saw too much. The land below had quieted into an unnatural stillness, broken only by the rhythmic beat of war drums from across the river.
Coalition trenches stank of blood, sweat, oil, and burnt quartz. Makeshift wards hissed in protest as the arcane flow grew increasingly volatile. The leyline fracture beneath the battlefield twisted time and gravity in subtle, maddening ways. On the southern hill, an entire scouting party had returned an hour before they had left, raving of beasts made of sound and soldiers who moved backward through their own deaths.
Captain Ilyra Veil sat alone at the edge of the forward trench, sword resting on her knees, half-lidded eyes watching the enemy through a slit visor. She hadn't slept. Couldn't. Not since the cannon.
The Dominion's moonlight cannon hadn't fired again. That meant they were charging it—or saving it for something worse.
"Captain," came a voice behind her. Kael.
He was pale, but vertical. The dark veins under his eyes pulsed slightly, a side effect of channeling ley-weave spells near unstable flows. His left hand still trembled from yesterday's spellwork. She said nothing, letting him continue.
"We've confirmed it. The Dominion's siege engineers have constructed two floating bridges. One is forming west of the broken birch tree. The other… eastern flank. Near the ruins."
Ilyra's stomach sank.
The ruins. The ancient structure buried beneath Duskfall Reach had once been a temple, maybe, or a waystation for skywatchers. No one knew for certain. The Dominion did. They always did.
"They're using the shard," Kael added. "The cannon wasn't their primary breach weapon. It was cover for the ritual."
Ilyra rose, every muscle protesting. She slung her blade across her back and gestured for him to follow. "We're going."
"To the eastern wall?"
"No. To the traitors."
They found them behind the command tents — two men in officer cloaks, one older, one barely out of cadet age. They were standing too close. Speaking too quietly. Kael traced a glyph midair, and their conversation echoed faintly into his ears. Ilyra didn't need to hear it to know. She'd suspected for days.
"You were supposed to slow them down," the older officer hissed.
"We did," the younger one replied. "The west flank attack cost them a hundred men."
"It wasn't enough. We needed a breakthrough."
"And what if they take the Reach? What then? You'll get your damn coalition reinforcements, sure—but how many of us will still be alive?"
"That's not your concern."
"It is when I'm the one they're bleeding dry—"
Ilyra stepped into view.
The young man jumped. The older one didn't flinch.
"I should kill you," she said calmly. "Not for treason. For incompetence."
The older officer shrugged. "You won't. If you did, Command would send a replacement just like me. Probably worse."
She drew her blade anyway. Pointed it at his heart. "I'm not waiting for replacements."
"You think you're saving the Reach by holding it?" he said, voice rising. "You're wasting blood on a ridge that doesn't matter. Let them have it. Let them stretch their supply lines. Let them overextend. Then strike."
"The Reach is the gateway to the midlands. You think Varn won't burn through the towns behind us before you 'strike'?"
"They might. But we'll win the war."
Ilyra stepped forward. "You already lost."
Then she turned, sheathed her sword, and walked away. The younger officer stared at her like he'd seen a ghost. The older one never blinked.
By midday, the eastern wall broke.
It happened fast, faster than anyone expected. One moment, the feyglass wards flickered over the ruins, repelling minor incursions; the next, the river churned and hissed, turning to steam as Dominion magi tore open a planar gate directly beneath the wall.
A war-golem came through first.
It was massive — twelve feet tall, carved from fused lunar crystal and alloyed steel, its joints burning with pale flame. Its movements were slow but inevitable, the kind of slowness that crushed mountains over eons. Sigils along its arms twisted in response to battlefield energy, absorbing the magic thrown at it and flinging it back threefold.
Coalition war-mages unleashed volleys of stormlight and kinetic blades, but the golem simply walked through them, one arm raised like a titan swatting away insects.
Behind it came the Moon-Bound elite. Light armor, crescent spears, and enchanted sashes that shimmered with time-disruption. Their formation bent physics. Two of them blinked through a Coalition wall and slit five throats before anyone saw them coming.
Ilyra arrived moments later, sprinting over the ridge.
Kael followed, bleeding from one ear. "I can slow the golem!"
"No," she snapped. "You'll die."
"I'll die anyway."
He raised both arms. Glyphs swirled. A tether-bead — their last — hovered between his palms and shattered, unleashing a burst of localized chronostasis. The golem froze. Half its foot remained mid-step, suspended above a screaming soldier.
"NOW!" Kael roared.
Ilyra dove forward, blade glowing with raw spellfire. She struck at the golem's knee joint, slicing deep into a faultline where the Dominion's binding runes throbbed with power.
The golem shrieked—not in sound, but in vibration. Every stone, every piece of iron, every bone in a ten-meter radius shivered in harmonic agony. The chronostasis shattered. The golem slammed one fist down, cratering the earth, but missed.
Coalition troops poured into the breach, pushing the Moon-Bound back. For a moment, the line held.
Then the cannon fired again.
This time, it didn't erase. It corrupted.
Where the beam struck, the ground blackened and twisted. Trees grew sideways. Men screamed as their armor melted not from heat, but from time rot—metal aging into rust before their eyes. One soldier crumbled to dust mid-charge.
Ilyra fell back, dragging Kael by the collar as he collapsed. He was unconscious, nose pouring blood. His magic was spent.
She didn't know how they'd held. They shouldn't have.
But as the sun set—or what passed for it beneath fractured moons—the Dominion forces began to retreat. Not fully. Just enough.
Enough to set up camp.
Enough to encircle.
Night fell.
Ilyra limped through what was left of the eastern wall. Two hundred men and women dead. Thirty missing. The ruins glowed faintly with residual energy, and in the center stood the golem's corpse — split from shoulder to hip, its crystal heart still pulsing dimly.
The cost had been astronomical.
Commander Vess approached her, both hands clasped behind his back.
"You've seen the new reports," he said.
"Enough of them. They're building another gate."
"Yes. Southward this time. Near the grave orchard."
"They'll try again tomorrow."
"Yes."
She looked at him, tired. "And you still think we should hold?"
He nodded. "I don't think we have a choice."
She sat down beside the golem's corpse. Her fingers touched the petrified sword hilt strapped to her back. Old steel. Older duty.
From the Dominion lines came no horns. Just silence.
But they would sound again.
And when they did, the real siege would begin.