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Chapter 57 - Before the Storm: Second Day

The tower bell rang three times.

In the Marquisate of Tiresias, the sound traveled through the air like an omen — heavy, prolonged, impossible to ignore.

The streets swarmed. Servants ran from one side to the other, the gates closed, and the smoke from the forges dyed the sky with shades of copper and gray.

"The king's army is less than a day's march away!" shouted a messenger, crossing the inner courtyard.

Inside the main hall, Marquis Haron observed the map on the table. His hands firm on the wood, his gaze fixed on the small marks that indicated the enemy positions. Each new piece of news moved a piece… and the siege was closing in.

"If they are here…" murmured the counselor beside him, pale. "It means something happened to Lady Thorne."

The marquis kept his gaze on the map.

"Yes," he answered in a low and firm voice. "And for that, we will have to prepare for the worst."

The distant sound of drums echoed, muffled by the wind.

The silence that followed was cut only by the hurried steps that echoed through the castle corridors — the omen that, at dawn, blood would stain the walls of Tiresias.

The war room boiled in murmurs, maps, and embers. Yet the sound ceased the instant Phoebe entered.

The white fabric of her garments floated softly, as if the air hesitated to touch her. Over her eyes, a golden blindfold reflected the torchlight, shimmering as if it held divine secrets.

"I have already repositioned the templar knights on the walls and told Karna to prepare," she said in a low and serene voice, the calm that many saw as a blessing, and others, as an omen.

Haron, standing beside the central table, raised his tired gaze. The shadows of weariness did not stop him from showing reverence, even if with a restrained nod.

"Lady Thorne departed to avoid a siege in the marquisate," he replied, his tone grave, heavy. "We are still stable, but without her… we will face this fight blind."

A brief smile curved Phoebe's lips — light, enigmatic.

"Blind, perhaps. But not all vision lies in the eyes."

She slowly approached the war table, her fingers resting with precision among the wooden figures that represented the walls.

"That is why I am here. I will take her place."

Haron hesitated for an instant, but the firmness in her voice made him retreat from any doubt.

"Haron, you will lead the front. If the king's army does not stop at night, it will arrive at dawn."

He nodded, his eyes scanning the map, his mind already marching.

"Then…" he called to the servant waiting at the door, "we will stop them at the Bronze Walls. Warn that all citizens from the Bronze Walls up to the Silver must retreat to the Golden Wall. Reposition the inexperienced from the Bronze and Silver walls to the Golden — and what remains will come with me."

The servant ran, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Phoebe remained still, her face slightly turned toward his voice, as if she could see by other means.

"Reinforce the inner walls with light artillery," she added. "And keep the messengers between the gates. If we can channel their advance, we will reduce the losses."

Haron crossed his arms, observing her for a moment — the woman who did not see the battlefield, yet seemed to perceive it better than all others.

"And the archers?" he asked.

"Divided into layers," she replied without hesitation. "The first rows hold position in the Bronze towers; the second line only retreats with direct order. Panic is the first enemy of a siege."

The distant sound of drums echoed through the castle, slow and threatening, while the flickering light of the torches reflected on Phoebe's golden blindfold, making her seem like a living statue, a war saint about to bless or condemn.

"Let those who fear, pray. Those who fight… remain firm. At dawn, blood will fall upon the walls — but let it not be ours."

Haron took a deep breath, as if her words were an invisible shield.

"Then so be it. May the gods look through your eyes."

She turned her face toward him — and, for an instant, the torch flames seemed to waver.

"They always look, Haron. Even when mortals close their eyes."

Haron absorbed the words for a moment, his gaze wandering through the war hall. The atmosphere was heavy with tension, as if every stone and every map held the expectation of a bloody dawn.

Knights entered and exited, carrying orders, maps, and supplies. The creak of boots on the stone floor, the clinking of metal, and the whisper of strategies filled the space.

Even after Haron's departure, the preparation continued, tireless and silent, while the city rose after the long night, ready to face what was to come.

Dawn rose cold over Tiresias.

The dew covered the stones, and the wind carried the smell of iron and distant smoke.

Atop the Bronze Walls, Haron remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the misty horizon.

The dark-blue armor reflected the faint light of dawn — the shine of steel bathed in shadow, heavy as the oath he carried.

The sound of morning was low… only the flutter of banners, the scraping of chains, and the restrained breaths of the archers awaiting.

For an instant, Haron closed his eyes and let the memory of the past night envelop him — Phoebe at his side, the preparations, the brief moment of silence before chaos, and the promise that still echoed in his chest.

"Haron walked through the side hall of the castle, the sound of his boots lightly echoing over the stone floor.

The torches on the walls cast trembling shadows, dancing along with the flame of the fireplace, reflecting on the metal arches and the ancient tapestries.

He stopped in an isolated space, where he could move freely. There he began to put on the dark-blue armor, fitting each piece with precision.

The sound of metal echoed through the hall, firm and rhythmic, as if each click and creak marked the countdown to what was to come."

Phoebe approached, the touch of her fingers lightly brushing the armor's metal, an almost imperceptible gesture, but enough to convey confidence and affection.

"Remember, Haron… don't overdo it. This child will need her father."

He paused for a moment, holding the helmet, his gaze lost in the shadows dancing around, before responding, firm:

"We will not underestimate the enemy's strength. Brianna left in despair because she thought the marquisate would not withstand a siege."

"Well, don't worry. She is tougher than she seems. I'm sure she's fine."

She slightly tilted her head, her voice softly persuasive, almost an intimate whisper:

"Now you are the leader, chief, and father of this territory. However brilliant Brianna's tactics and strategies may be, the one who will pull this marquisate forward will be you."

"Remember: you can be the one who sustains through your strength alone… and I will take care of the rest."

Silence hovered between them, laden with understanding and tenderness. Every detail of the moment — the torchlight reflecting on the deep blue of the armor, the restrained warmth of the fireplace, Phoebe's touch — seemed to suspend time."

Then, the silence was broken. A deep sound — distant but growing — cut through the air like thunder. The war drums. Soon, the metallic echo of thousands of steps.

Haron opened his eyes. On the horizon, the mist parted, revealing the army's advance — a sea of spears, shields, and golden banners.

The sunlight reflected on the enemy blades, and the entire valley shimmered in a golden and silver hue that contrasted with the somber blue of his armor.

"They are coming…" murmured the captain beside him.

Haron adjusted his helmet, his voice firm, cutting:

"Ring the bells. Tiresias will not fall today."

The sound of the bells echoed, deep and solemn, as the soldiers ran to their positions. The blue of the walls and the gold of dawn clashed.

On the parapets, the sight struck the soldiers with almost physical force. Trembling hands gripped spears and bows, accelerated breaths tried to deceive the fear rising in their chests.

Some archers slightly stepped back, others swallowed hard, eyes wide as they measured the enormity of the enemy army. Among them, Karna adjusted his bow, his posture firm despite the cold trembling through his body. He knew that today every arrow would be vital — and he was ready.

"This is… impossible," whispered a young man, almost hiding behind his comrade's shield.

Haron took a deep breath, feeling the cold morning wind cut his face. The fear still vibrated in the soldiers' shoulders, in the fingers that trembled over spears and bows, in the eyes that sought refuge in one another.

He raised his voice, firm and resounding, that crossed the mist and reached every defender:

"Soldiers of Tiresias!" The word reverberated over the walls like the sound of contained thunder. "Today we do not defend only stones or banners! Today we defend our blood, our home, our honor!"

The soldiers lifted their eyes, and for an instant the fear seemed to falter, as if Haron's voice cut through the very terror that dominated them.

Each archer straightened his bow, each spear was firmly gripped. The cold of dawn became almost secondary before the fire beginning to ignite in their chests.

"Look around you!" continued Haron, taking a few steps forward along the parapet, the armor reflecting the rising sun. "These walls are more than stone and steel! They are the heart of Tiresias! Each one of you is the steel that keeps this heart beating!"

He stopped, breathed deeply, his eyes scanning every face. Fear still existed — but now there was something more: determination, rage, courage.

"Courage is not the absence of fear," he said, his voice sharp and steady, "but the act of fighting despite it! Today, we show that Tiresias does not bow! Today, whoever dares to challenge us will feel the strength of a united people!"

The silence that followed was heavy, but charged with energy. Then, a collective roar rose from the walls, the sound of voices and steel joining as one. The fear did not vanish completely, but now it was tempered with fury and purpose.

The Count, watching from afar, raised an eyebrow, a mocking smile curving his lips.

"We came expecting weak resistance," he murmured, irony evident, "but it seems we underestimated them."

The sun shone over the walls, reflecting on the armors and banners. The blue and the gold of dawn clashed over the valley, and the tension hung like a thread ready to snap into steel and blood.

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