The Rhythm of Iron and Wood
Morning mist slowly descended from the slopes of Mt. Gedi, cloaking the pine forest like a damp blanket. Yet behind that fog, the clanging of iron and the creak of saws broke the silence. Eirindale was no longer asleep.
Hidden deep in the forest, between cliffs and ancient roots, stood a workshop. Not grand, but strong. Straw-roofed tents concealed the activities inside: blacksmiths, engineers, carpenters, even a few former thieves now carving siege ladders.
A battering ram was taking shape: a massive wooden log mounted on an iron axis, bound with highland fiber ropes. Folding ladders were designed to be pulled with a single motion.
An old technician, his hands scarred by old burns, drew blueprints in the sand. Around him, young men took notes.
"You think this tool will break the Main Gate?" asked one.
The old man just chuckled. "It's not the tool that breaks it. It's the conviction behind it."
From a nearby hilltop, Azfaran observed in silence. The wind tugged at his cloak. He murmured,
"Rise, Eirindale. This is more than a war. This is the call of history."
**
The Mountain Cavalry
To the west, the rocky terrain became the training ground for horse riders. Mountain cavalry were trained to move swiftly through narrow paths, make sharp turns, and ambush from above.
A horse neighed as a young man lost his balance. He fell, groaning in pain. A grizzled veteran with silver hair lifted him.
"Know why I'm not angry?" asked the veteran.
"Because I'm still learning?"
"No. Because you fell before the enemy could bring you down. That's how you live longer."
Among them, soldiers began to understand respect not from orders, but from bruises. Between drills, they dressed each other's wounds, shared food, laughed despite gasping breaths.
A young female rider stopped beside Azfaran, who was scribbling something in his notebook.
"What are you writing?"
"Probabilities of victory," Azfaran replied without looking up.
She smiled. "Write one for us too."
"I already did. You're in the first paragraph."
**
Natural Obstacles and Tensions
The next morning, the ground trembled. Overnight rain had triggered a minor landslide on the western slope. Shouts echoed as a dozen horses fled into the woods. Several engineers were injured, crushed by logs falling from the logistics trail.
In the underground depot, a woman named Shareen—the head of logistics—was in a heated argument with the chief technician.
"I need six carts to deliver food to the front!" she shouted.
"And I need seven to move ladder frames before sundown!" he snapped back.
"If your soldiers starve, who'll climb your ladders?"
"If the enemy gate stands, there'll be nothing to eat!"
Silence fell. Heavy breaths filled the room.
Azfaran entered, his gaze sweeping across them.
"I won't take sides. But I know this: war strips us bare. If we let it divide us now, we've already lost before crossing the river."
They said nothing. Shareen nodded. The technician lowered his shoulders.
"Give me three carts. And one of your men helps with logistics till nightfall," she offered.
"Agreed," the technician replied. "On one condition: you join tomorrow's battering ram trial."
They shared a faint laugh—a small victory amid the coming storm.
**
Maeron's Mission in Iskhalin – Shadows that Sneak In
Morning fog veiled the plains at Iskhalin's border. Maeron wore a coarse gray cloak, her face hidden beneath a wide hood, blending into a small caravan posing as spice and fabric traders. Four others accompanied her—two hired rogues as guards, an old woman with a basket of herbs, and a man on a donkey carrying "trade documents."
But they weren't traders. They were a diplomatic infiltration unit from Eirindale, sent by Azfaran to take the pulse of Iskhalin from within. Their mission was simple yet perilous: gather evidence, find voices, seek hope.
As they entered the border town, Maeron studied the buildings—solid, yet riddled with cracks. People moved quickly, heads down, as if gazes could kill. The city's air wasn't just cold—it was suffocating.
In a dilapidated inn, Maeron recorded every patrol route, market hour, and guard movement. But their most vital intel came not from observation—but a seemingly random moment.
**
An Unexpected Encounter
That afternoon, Maeron's group visited a back-alley market to trade some goods. Amid stacks of grains and worn fabrics, she spotted a woman with cautious eyes holding a boy's hand. The child's gaze was sharp, catching Maeron's attention. The boy was Qadhir, Nasmah's son.
Not recognition—but instinct. The boy's eyes seemed to see deeper than faces.
Maeron said nothing, but as the woman—Nasmah—passed by, she heard a whisper, nearly drowned in the market's noise:
"There's a place north, beneath the old tower. If you seek direction, go after nightfall."
Maeron didn't react. She knew well how covert messages worked. That evening, they retreated quietly to their collapsing inn loft and waited for darkness.
**
The Meeting Point – A Tower that Whispers Rebellion
Near midnight, they crept through narrow alleys toward a ruined watchtower, abandoned for being "non-strategic." Inside was only broken stone and a spiral stair, but enough to shelter conspiracy.
There, by the dim light of a torch, stood three people. Among them was Nasmah, beside a sharp-eyed older man—Fatheh.
Maeron removed her hood. No words wasted.
"Eirindale hears your voice," she said softly, firmly.
Fatheh stared at her, measuring whether this was truth or a trap.
"We no longer wait for miracles," he finally said. "But if you bring more than hope—if you bring a plan—we're ready to talk."
From the shadows, Nura emerged, watching Maeron with a mix of suspicion and hope. Behind them, two young men carried worn scrolls and old maps—proof that plans had been laid for long time, waiting for a spark.
**
Key Dialogue
Maeron sat cross-legged on the stone floor, pulling a small map from her belt.
"Sharrfan thinks his people are still afraid. But you all, are not the same people anymore," she said. "We're not here to save you. We're here to join your voice."
Fatheh stepped closer, staring into her.
"We've lost homes, names, parts of our souls. All we have left is courage. But courage without direction is destruction. We need a sign."
Maeron smiled faintly. She pulled a carved wooden token from her pouch—a symbol combining the border tribe of Eirindale and ancient Iskhalin motifs.
"The sign has already been sent. Now we just need to open the path."
That night's meeting was a turning point—not just because of the intel exchanged, but because for the first time, two fronts of resistance began to unite. No longer just from the inside or the outside, but both.
As they parted before dawn, Fatheh said to Maeron:
"If this works… our children will read of you not as bringers of war, but openers of freedom doors."
Maeron gazed at the fading stars. In her heart, she knew: this dawn belonged not just to Iskhalin—but to Eirindale too.
**
Azfaran and His Wall of Decisions
The following night, Azfaran stood atop the eastern wall of the fortress, wearing a heavy cloak. Below, the workshop lights still burned. In the distance, shadows of cavalry returning from drills flickered.
In his hand, a letter addressed to his grandfather, King Saleem. He read it silently:
"Grandfather, I now understand why grandmother never spoke much of war. Not because she forgot. But because such wounds aren't meant to be remembered—only healed through the future."
"I'm afraid. Not of dying. But of failing to protect the hope rising from these ruins."
Footsteps approached. Maeron appeared, weary, her coat damp.
"We made contact. But time is tight. Delay more than three weeks… and the inner rebellion may wither."
"How many support us?" asked Azfaran.
"Not many. But the few we have… they're ready to burn."
Azfaran looked to the dark sky. He whispered—not to Maeron, but to the world itself:
"If tonight is the last dark… then let us be the first fire."
**
A Resolve Carved into Wood
The next morning, after days of rain and rising tension, the first battering ram was completed. Its wooden frame reinforced with steel, and on its head, the symbol of Eirindale's unity—not a dragon, but a cracked stone still standing.
The chief technician tapped the ram's side with his hammer.
"She may not speak… but if she could, she'd say: I was born from the storm."
Laughter broke out. Even Shareen, arriving with a basket of bread, chuckled.
Next day In Iskhalin, Fatheh opened a package disguised in spice wrappings. Inside, a single message written on a dry leaf:
"The fire from the West prepares to rise. Three weeks from today. The wall shall echo from both sides."
Fatheh looked at his comrades. He raised the note.
"They're coming. We are not alone."
Outside, the sun had not yet risen. But everyone knew—light was on its way.