The last stand had begun. The King's soldiers poured through the shattered gate, a grim tide of steel and fury. They were met by the desperate, defiant resistance of Lysa's small force. Swords clashed, spears broke, and the courtyard became a bloody tapestry of chaos. Lysa and Ren fought side-by-side, their hearts pounding with a frantic, hopeless courage.
Then, the sound cut through the noise of battle.
It was the deep, resonant call of a war horn. The sound was unmistakable, and it was not coming from the King's legions. It was coming from the distance, a note of impossible hope in the middle of a massacre.
The effect was immediate and jarring. Swords froze in mid-air. The men on both sides, their faces streaked with dirt and blood, looked up. The King's soldiers, disciplined and relentless, hesitated for the first time. Lysa's men, a broken force, found a sudden, desperate strength. All eyes, friend and foe alike, turned to the horizon.
Lysa, her sword dripping with blood, turned to the sound, a prayer on her lips. It was a war horn. But whose? Could it be Damon, riding to their rescue? A moment of wild, impossible hope filled her chest. But then a chilling doubt crept in. The world was at war. It could be another enemy, another lord seizing an opportunity to claim a castle for himself. The horn was a promise, but a promise of what, she did not know.
The general, watching from his command tent, was enraged. His game of torment had been interrupted by a variable he could not control. He grabbed his second-in-command, Joris, by the collar. "Scouts! Now! Find out who dares to sound a horn on my field!"
The battle had not ended. It had simply paused. The King's soldiers and the men of House Galen stood in a tense, silent standoff. The cries of battle were replaced by a terrible quiet, a breathless moment of anticipation. All eyes were on the horizon, waiting to see if salvation or damnation was coming to end this cruel game.