“I believe we both received the same missive,” Cassandra said to General Longstreet, then flicked an icy glance at Fairborne.
“Indeed,” replied the rugged general. Steady as Marchland’s bluffs, Longstreet was a veteran in his early sixties—his military line stretching back generations. A scar carved a mark through one bushy brow, his chin as firm as marble. “I felt an urgency to include Mr. Fairborne, as his cotton plantation—thereby the economy of the city—lies in jeopardy.”
“A fair point,” Cassandra conceded. “What’s your strategy? The Cade family is prepared to do its part to defend Marchland.” It always sounded weightier for her to say “the Cade family” than simply, “I”, even though she was pretty much it. Her aunt and uncle, with their chicken ranch, paid little attention to matters at court, and she didn’t like to drag Suzanne into risky business.
“I’ll be selecting a team to fly out by balloon, scouting our enemy’s position,” Longstreet stated. “General Calder is sending a squad from Stonevale as well. The queen and General Stark are right. We must know where they are beforewe can guess where they’re headed or when they’ll arrive, but it’s almost certain Marchland is a primary target.”
Just as I feared, Cassandra thought.That’s the price of governing the town that holds our largest base.
Vance noticed. “Don’t worry, Lady Cade,” she said. “We sent our engineers with a battalion of workers to construct fortifications around the city. As we speak, they’re stacking sandbags and erecting a wooden palisade to keep the invaders out.”
“In three hundred years, this fortress has never been breached,” Longstreet declared. “Even with overwhelming numbers, Irons doesn’t stand a chance.”
The fortress might have stood for centuries, but Cassandra knew even the strongest walls could crack under enough pressure. She feared it might crumble on her watch.
“The only time enemy forces ever occupied it was after a long, beleaguering siege. That is the eventuality we must plan for. Poor folks back in 1863, reduced to eating rats, and when those ran out …” Longstreet shook his head. “I don’t intend for that to happen to us. I’ve ordered unused space converted into stockyards and a year’s supply of canned and freeze-dried rations. We have far more civilians to feed than old Vicksburg, but the hard lessons of history are on our side.”
“That’s where you come in, Lady Cade,” Vance said, leaning forward, an eagerness across her face. “The people adore you. All you need do is say the word, and the residents will fall all over themselves to gain your approval. Prepare an inspiring speech encouraging them to take immediate action. Board up windows and doors to protect from stray gunfire. Conserve water, food, and resources. Those who are able should volunteer for the militia. You can stir their hearts and bolster morale like no one else.”
It was flattering yet true. Cassandra was not only a noble but a celebrity to the masses. “But will there be enough food and water to sustain us through a siege?” she asked, recalling the lean years of her childhood—the tornado that tore apart granaries, the drought and boll weevil, the bird flu that wiped out hundreds of chicken ranches. A siege could be far worse.
“Our tanks and cisterns hold enough water for six months, barring too many fires,” Longstreet added under his breath. “And we can always use hand pumps on the wells to get more. We’re calling for area farmers to harvest their corn, oats, and hay—even if it’s too early—to have feed for the cattle. As long as the supplies I’ve ordered arrive and residents cut back … but Irons doesn’t want to sit around for months waiting for us to capitulate. I believe he’ll waste his soldiers’ lives in numerous futile attacks. Either way, we’re Marchlanders; we hold strong.”
Fairborne shifted uncomfortably, a look of dismay widening across his pasty face, drawing down his thin lips. Around the general’s age, the cotton baron displayed a fraction of his physical strength or moral fortitude.
“What about my plantation? It’s far outside the city limits. Who will protect it?”
Vance answered, “Bring your workers into town. We’ll billet them in hotels and boarding houses. If Lady Cade enacts an immediate price freeze,” she suggested, glancing to Cassandra, “there’ll be no chance of gouging.”
Cassandra nodded, making a mental note. Maybe she should have brought paper and pencil to write everything down.
“But my crops!” Fairborne tossed his palms in the air. “The cotton won’t be ready for over a month.”
“Realistically,” Longstreet laid out, “the Iron Army will destroy everything in its path. If we survive this, you’ll have a new crop next year.”
“Sir.” Fairborne straightened, haughtiness where concern had just reigned. “Do you forget where the wealth of this nation originates, where the money to pay your salary comes from? Spare a company to protect my fields. It’s the least you could do.”
Cassandra lowered her gaze, wiping a hand across her mouth at his foolish request. Longstreet gave him a withering look and shook his head. “Mr. Fairborne, you don’t seem to comprehend the gravity of the situation. What defense would a few hundred soldiers be? The Iron Army marches eighty thousand strong. I won’t condemn my troops to die defending your ego. You were invited as a courtesy. If you have nothing useful to add, remain silent.”
Fairborne grumbled, pushing back in his chair, his brows scrunching to his cheekbones. “I’d sooner cut a deal with Irons,” he grumbled. “He wouldn’t torch profitable fields.”
“Don’t count on it,” Cassandra replied. She recalled the offer General Crane had sent—to spare the city and its residents if they surrendered without a fight. Except, according to the report, Crane was dead. Would the new general be as merciful? She doubted it. “I’ll order the price freeze today and plan a citywide gathering for tomorrow evening at six o’clock in the school stadium. You’ll have your rousing speech and the full backing of House Calder.” She could feel Fairborne’s glare without bothering to look.
Stonevale, same day
Perched atop a rocky ridge, jagged and foreboding, towered the stone walls of Highcrest Hall, like a medieval castle set down in the Tennessee hills. Roderic stood atop the battlements with his father, Lord Thorne Calder, taking in the sweeping view of Stonevale and the valleys beyond. Its position made it both a symbol of Calder authority and a literal fortress. A banner displaying the family sigil flew overhead—a silver falcon over a mountain peak.
Below, the courtyard bristled with reminders of Calder pride—rows of weathered helmets lining the walls, rusted halberds crossed above the gates, and a carved stone falcon so old its beak had crumbled away. Every relic whispered the same message: this house was forged for war and would not be forgotten. Roderic had grown up here, these chiseled rocks his playground. He hoped to be buried here … one day in the distant future.
“By honor, we rise,” quoted his father, gaze steady to the west. “It’s our family motto for a reason. Your ancestors built this castle long ago, foreseeing its futurenecessity. Now, you have the chance to fulfill the culmination of our lineage’s dream.”
Roderic shifted his stance to catch the lord’s gaze. “How do you mean? I’m about to ride into the greatest battle since the War of Ruin and likely not return. You know the odds as well as I.”
A sly smile tugged at his father’s lips. His russet eyes shone under white brows, and he brushed a gnarled finger down his nose. “You have a singular opportunity, my son. If you and the Stonevale army turn back the Republic’s invasion, you’ll be hailed a hero—the nation’s savior. While Queen Frost appears weak, running to the Frostlands to beg for help, you’ll stand powerful as Verdancia’s defender. Who knows? You could snatch victory before she even returns.” His clawlike fingers seized a fistful of air, clamping shut. “The people will demand you become their king. I can sway Lady Cade and Lord Whitfield to side with us if you do your part and defend the realm.”
“They outnumber us too greatly, Father.” He tried to make the lord see reason. Although he respected his father, he was of the mind that the old man should step down. Roderic was in his prime, not tottering about in a world of fantasy, inventing victories where they didn’t exist.
“Ah, but we have the home-ground advantage. General Crane was a legend, but he no longer leads the Iron Army. Does this new commander know our rivers and swamps, where pitfalls and dangers await? You can lay a trap for him, snare him in its steel jaws.”
