The iron bells toll three times, their deep bronze voices echoing across Ironhold’s battlements. War council. The sound has summoned my captains to decide the fate of battles for three generations. I stride through the corridors toward Wolf Hall. Warriors step aside as I pass, pressing themselves against the walls. They can sense the mood radiating from me—controlled violence held on a tight leash.
The messenger’s words echo with each step: Everyone’s dead. Oryx is coming. But we lack thewhenand thehow many. I have built my reputation on knowing my enemy’s movements before they know them themselves. Now, I am reduced to guessing.
My war council stands waiting beside the great table—a slab of black stone that has served Iron Wolves for generations. Maps spread across its surface, marked with defensive positions and supply routes.
I take my place at the table’s head. “Report,” I order.
Scout Havos steps forward, his left arm in a sling. “Oryx Blackmaw’s army moves through the passes. Tens of thousands. War orcs, siege beasts, and blood mages.”
The room shifts. Gorak’s hand drifts to his axe. Thraz, however, merely nods. “Ironhold has never faced siege with a crippled battle standard,” Thraz rumbles. “The fortress ward-magic depends on that banner. Without it, we are just a pile of stones.”
“The standard is being repaired,” I state.
“By the human,” Thraz’s lip curls. “You stake our lives on a seamstress from a dirt village who knows nothing of our traditions.”
Hadrun steps forward, his voice measured. “Warlord, if the girl fails, we are exposed. Oryx has demands regarding her. Perhaps surrendering the tribute could buy us the time we need to fortify the lower gates.”
“No.” The word is final. “The human is under my direct protection. That protection is absolute.”
“Is it protection, or a distraction?” Hadrun asks quietly, his eyes narrowed. “The clan sees their warlord guarding a tribute more carefully than his own walls. You are walking a dangerous line, Vlorn. Personal attachment in wartime never ends well.”
“The girl works. The standard improves,” I reply, dismissing the challenge. “That is all that matters.”
I study the maps, the strategic mind I’ve honed through decades of warfare finally taking over. “Double the perimeter guard. Position archers for overlapping fields of fire. We maintain normal patterns until the last possible moment. We fight alone.”
The council disperses slowly. I leave Wolf Hall and climb toward the War Tower. I need to see the standard’s progress. I need to see her.
The admission comes unwelcome but undeniable. In the chaos of approaching war and fractured loyalty, she’s become steady ground. Real purpose.
Worth protecting for reasons that have nothing to do with tactics.
The realization should worry me more than it does.
The War Tower door stands slightly ajar when I reach it. Inside, I hear the soft sounds of needle on fabric. No guards—I dismissed them when I went to the council, wanting her to work without pressure.
I push the door open quietly.
Zoraya sits cross-legged beside the hanging standard, her entire focus concentrated on the section spread across her lap. The magical fabric glows faintly where she’s been working, silver threads catching the light. Her honey-blonde hair falls forward, shielding her face, and her fingers move with practiced precision.
She doesn’t notice me at first, too absorbed in her work. I watch her for a moment, studying the concentration in her profile, the way she holds herself despite exhaustion.
Then she looks up, and her storm-gray eyes meet mine. No magical connection tells me what she’s thinking, but I can read weariness in her expression, determination mixed with concern.
“How much progress?” My voice startles her slightly, and she pauses mid-stitch.
“More than I expected. Less than we need.” She gestures at the section she’s been repairing. “The damage is extensive, but the underlying structure is sound. Whoever sabotaged this knew enough to weaken it without destroying it completely.”
I move closer, kneeling beside her to examine her work. The repaired section glows with steady silver light, the runes flowing in unbroken patterns. It’s clearly functional—I can sense the magic humming through the fabric.
“How long until it’s finished?”
“Days. Maybe a week, if I work without stopping.” She looks up at me, those gray eyes serious. “How much time do we have?”
“Unknown. Could be days. Could be hours.”
Her face goes pale, but she doesn’t flinch. “Then I work faster.”
The simple determination in her voice hits me harder than any declaration of loyalty. No dramatics, no pleas for protection or promises of reward. Just acceptance of necessity and willingness to meet it.
