“Three that I could see clearly. Maybe more concealed in the tree line.” Rowan shifts his weight nervously, leather creaking. “Catapults, battering rams, scaling towers. They know we’re vulnerable, Warlord. This isn’t a probing attack—this is conquest.”
“Keep an eye on all approaches,” I order. “If they move, I want to know immediately. And Rowan—send word to the outer settlements. Anyone who can reach us by dawn gets sanctuary. Anyone who can’t...”
I let the words trail off. We both know what happens to civilians caught between armies.
“Done,” he confirms. “Is there... anything else?”
His eyes flick toward Zoraya’s door, and I see the question he’s not asking. What about the human? What about the girl who’s become the center of every decision you make?
“Nothing else,” I tell him. “Dismissed.”
He retreats with military efficiency, leaving me alone with stone and shadows and the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat. Behind the door, I can hear faint sounds—the soft whisper of fabric, the occasional creak of bed ropes.
She’s not sleeping either.
The thought of her lying awake, staring at the ceiling while enemies gather beyond the walls and traitors prowl the corridors, sends fresh anger through me. She shouldn’t have to fear for her life every moment she draws breath. Shouldn’t have to sleep with a weapon in her hand because my own people hunt her.
But she faces it all with quiet courage that humbles me. No weeping, no demands for rescue, no promises of reward if I keep her safe. Just grim determination to survive and the skill to back it up.
When did protecting her stop being duty and become something personal? When did her safety become more important than my own survival?
The questions have no good answers, but they circle in my mind endlessly.
Dawn creeps closer with agonizing slowness, marked by the gradual shift of shadows across the corridor walls and thechanging rhythm of the fortress around us. Night watch gives way to morning patrol. Kitchen fires spark to life in preparation for the day’s meals.
The ordinary business of survival continues despite the extraordinary circumstances that threaten to destroy us all.
I remain motionless against the stone, sword planted, watching and listening for threats that might never come. But readiness is its own kind of warfare, and vigilance is a weapon as sharp as any blade.
Then, in the deepest hour before sunrise, it begins.
A low, thunderous horn blast rolls across the mountains from the direction of Skull Vale. Not the sharp, martial notes of Ironhold’s signals, but something deeper and more ominous. The sound of bone instruments played by inhuman lungs, carrying across miles to announce approaching death.
The call raises every hair on my arms and sends ice through my veins. I’ve heard that sound before, in battles that still wake me screaming in the depths of winter nights. Oryx’s war call, the song of conquest and slaughter.
In the kennels far below, the wolves go mad. Their howls rise in answer to the enemy call, a chorus of rage and bloodlust that echoes off the fortress walls and mingles with the bone music until the very air seems alive with violence.
Shouts follow as guards rush to battle stations, armor clanking against stone as warriors scramble for weapons they should have been wearing. Feet pound on stairwells as captains race to their assigned positions.
The ordered activity of a fortress preparing for siege.
Behind me, Zoraya’s door opens.
I turn to find her standing in the threshold, fully dressed and alert despite the early hour. She’s chosen practical clothes—dark wool that won’t show blood, sturdy boots that will grip stoneeven when wet. Her sewing kit is clutched in one hand, and I can see the outline of her awl tucked into her belt.
Ready for work. Ready for war.
She’s pale but composed, her eyes clear and focused despite what must have been another sleepless night. No tears, no panic, no demands for impossible guarantees. Just the same quiet strength that has impressed me since the moment I claimed her in my throne room.
“The standard?” I ask, rising to my feet with fluid grace.
“Nearly finished. A few more hours if I work without stopping.” Her eyes meet mine as another enemy horn sounds in the distance, closer this time, answered by the howls of wolves and the clash of steel. “Will you have a few more hours?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications we both understand. The answer depends on factors beyond my control—the loyalty of my captains, the strength of partially repaired wards, the skill of defenders against overwhelming odds.
But I’ve never backed down from impossible fights, and I’m not starting now.
“Then we hold until you’re done.” I watch something shift in her expression. Trust, determination, something deeper that makes my breath catch despite the turmoil erupting around us.
