The wind carried a different weight that morning—less of smoke, more of silence. Not the stillness of peace, but the taut hush before a bowstring snaps. Edric Vale stood at the northern parapet, hands curled tight over stone. Ashcoil coiled loosely at his feet, tongue flicking, picking up what Edric could not. Behind him, the yard stirred. Brynn barked drill orders, Garrick thudded through shield rotations, and Fiona—smeared in soot—ran a whetstone over her fifth blade of the hour. It should've felt like progress. It didn't.
"Your Highness." Ronan's voice, clipped, came from behind. Edric turned. The shield-captain's brow was damp, jaw set too tight. "You need to see this."
They moved to the western overlook, past the half-built archer tower, where a spyglass had been mounted. Edric raised it. The treeline swayed gentle as ever—except now, it had eyes. Dozens of white birds—hawks, by the shape—perched in perfect formation across the upper branches. Watching. Waiting. Sentinels of something worse.
"Geldar falconers," Ronan muttered. "Scouting with trained eyes. They'll know every path, every hole in our flank."
"They've begun the siege," Edric said, voice low. "Without lifting a blade."
Ronan nodded once, then broke the silence. "Fletcher says we're down to seventy clean arrows. Fiona's working on iron-bite heads. The rest… cracked shafts, poor fletching, splinters." He hesitated. "Some volunteers are using slingstones."
"Slingstones against knights."
"Better than prayers."
Edric didn't flinch, but something behind his ribs did. He scanned the field again. Far below, barely visible, shapes shifted in the mist. Banners, maybe. One bore black, the other deep green. No charge visible yet. "We buy time," Edric said. "Shadows can be stronger than walls."
That night, under lamplight in the ruined war chamber, they laid out the plan. Maps carved into old slate, pawns cut from candle stubs and knuckle bones. Brynn, Garrick, Ronan, Fiona, Merra, even Rafe. Edric circled a hill west of the keep with chalk. "We torch a false camp here—armor dummies, lit fires. Let them see it. Make them think our main force sleeps out there."
Brynn crossed her arms. "If they take the bait…"
"They'll flank the flank. And we spring them."
Garrick tapped a crooked line east. "And if they don't take it?"
"We still gain sight lines. Higher ground."
Rafe grunted. "How do we light the hill without sending a dozen to die?"
"I'll go," Fiona said. No hesitation. Grease-slick hands trembling just slightly.
"No," Edric said. "You'll stay and prep the fire arrows. I'm sending Will and Cress."
"You're joking."
"They're quiet. Fast. They're ready."
Brynn raised a brow. "They're children."
"They're shadows," Edric replied. "And this is the job they trained for."
At midnight, Edric walked alone through the courtyard, stars gleaming like forgotten nails in the sky. He paused by the fountain—still dry, still cracked. Beside it, the tattered griffin banner had been draped over the broken masonry. Someone—Merra, he guessed—had stitched it with gold thread, a crude attempt to reinforce the fraying silver wings.
Ashcoil slithered up beside him, scales glowing faint blue. Edric lowered his voice. "You feel it too, don't you?"
The serpent's head cocked.
"Whatever's coming—it's already here."
Ashcoil blinked once, then lowered its head.
Dawn broke in red and orange, as if the sky itself bled. On the west hill, smoke rose. They took the bait.
Rafe brought word first. "Two Geldar units peeled off from the main force. Mounted. Probably three dozen riders." He was out of breath. "Will saw them. He's back. Cress is still shadowing the rearguard."
Edric turned to Ronan. "How long until they reach the dummy camp?"
"Two hours. Less if they gallop."
Brynn rolled her shoulder. "And our ambush line?"
"In place." Garrick stood, shaking sleep off his back like dust. "Ten archers. Twelve spears. Rocks. Slings. Faith."
"Then we begin," Edric said.
The ambush worked too well.
When the Geldar riders reached the false camp, they didn't charge—they dismounted. Searched the tents. Found nothing. But instead of falling back, they lit torches and waited.
"Why aren't they attacking?" Fiona hissed from Edric's side.
"They're not scouts," Garrick said grimly. "They're bait."
From the east came the real charge. Fifty riders. Steel-helmed, axe-heavy, roaring down the low path like wolves unleashed.
"Shields up!" Brynn bellowed. "Loose on my mark!"
Edric gripped his buckler. No time to think, no time to blink. Just draw.
He reached for the blood-pin on his bracer. His skin sizzled. The rune flared—Chain Form: Ironhide.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes, but his limbs stiffened like forged steel.
"Now!" Brynn's voice cracked.
The arrows flew. Fiona's flame-tipped shafts screamed through the air. Riders fell. Horses shrieked. Chaos slammed into the ambush line.
Edric moved like a blade, blocking two blows meant for Ronan. The shield-captain grunted, swung his mace in a wide arc, and dropped a knight from his saddle. But the line wavered.
Too many.
A spear pierced the ranks. A farmer screamed. Garrick vanished beneath hooves. Then rose again—bloodied, grinning, dragging a knight by the leg.
"More behind them!" Will shouted from the tower. "More coming!"
Edric's body screamed. His rune flickered. Ironhide cracking.
Ashcoil burst from the shadows, fangs bared. It latched onto a warhorse's throat, toppling the beast in seconds. The sight bought them seconds.
But seconds weren't enough.
"Fall back!" Edric roared. "Wall line! Move!"
They broke. Not a rout, but a retreat. Controlled chaos. Edric pulled Fiona behind him as she stumbled. Ronan dragged a boy with a broken arm. Brynn caught Garrick before he could collapse.
Behind them, the false camp burned for real.
Back inside the keep, they slammed the portcullis just as the enemy reached the base.
Silence.
Then a horn. Long. Slow. Mocking.
"They're toying with us," Brynn spat. "They could've stormed while we ran."
"They want fear," Garrick said, wiping blood from his beard. "Or surrender."
Edric stood in the center of the yard. Breathing hard. Eyes glazed. His limbs still buzzed from the rune use. His chest hurt.
Not from wounds.
From loss.
"Count," he rasped.
Rafe shuffled forward, face pale. "Seven dead. Four missing. Cress still out."
Silence again.
Then Edric turned. Climbed the steps to the wall. Faced the enemy. Banners waved in the distance now—black with a red fang.
The sigil of Baron Halvek.
Varric's strongest ally.
"I was hoping it was him," Edric muttered.
Brynn joined him. "We'll break before his war line does."
Edric nodded. "So we won't wait for it."
That night, under flickering lamplight, Edric drew again. Not battle lines. Not troop counts.
Runes.
Blood shimmered on parchment. His. The paper curled under the pressure.
Ashcoil slithered near, head tilting. Watching.
Edric's hand trembled as he finished the loop. A new pattern. Built from Ironhide and Battle-Pulse. Not stable. Not yet.
But close.
Behind him, Fiona stirred. She had refused to sleep. Her hands blackened from smoke, her eyes ringed deep.
"You're bleeding too much," she whispered.
"Not enough," Edric said.
She stepped forward. "They'll break us."
"Not if I break first," he said.
And on the parchment, the rune flared—bright enough to light the room.
Ashcoil hissed softly, in approval or warning.
Edric didn't know which. And he didn't care.