The first day of the siege came with a silence so deep it seemed as though the world itself was holding its breath. It was a fragile quiet, the kind that settles before a storm when even the birds know to take shelter. For hours, the walls of Torvald stood still, its defenders little more than silhouettes against the gray light of morning, eyes fixed on the horizon where the enemy waited.
Then the Elves came.
The vanguard swept forward like shadows unfurling across the snow, silent and swift. Behind them marched the siege engines, towers of dark wood and obsidian, crawling across the valley floor like lumbering beasts. Ballistae creaked ominously, their massive bolts dark as midnight. In their wake came the artillery mages, cloaked figures whose outstretched hands gathered the storm.
And they brought fire.
The first volley screamed through the air, a blaze of red and white that struck the walls with the sound of a mountain splitting. The impact shook the stone foundations, throwing frost and splinters into the air. Soldiers braced themselves, the shock rolling up through their boots and into their bones. The wardlines, barely visible glyphs etched across the walls, flared to life, lines of blue light humming as they absorbed the blow.
But even as the fire dissipated, the crackling wards dimmed ever so slightly.
Seeker stood on the ramparts, his knuckles white as they gripped the frost-crusted parapet. Around him, soldiers scrambled, reloading ballistae, carrying crates of arrows, shouting orders that were already drowned out by the thrum of magic. The walls shivered again as another explosion blossomed against the stone. He felt it in his teeth, a deep vibration that rattled inside his chest like a distant drum.
“Wards are holding,” a voice called to his left. Sarra, her face pale beneath her helm, stared at the runes flaring faintly on her bracers. “But they won’t last forever.”
Seeker didn’t need to look to know she was right. The soldiers wore personal wards, thin lines of protection etched into armor and shields, fed by small shards of mana stone. They were meant to absorb glancing blows, not endure a relentless magical barrage. Even now, as fire and frost rained down from the Elven artillery, those wards flickered, fading a little more with each strike. Soldiers shook their arms to wake the failing protections, muttering prayers to gods that had long since stopped answering.
“How long can we hold them?” Seeker asked, his voice flat, focused.
Sarra glanced at him, her expression grim. “The mages say the wards on the walls will hold for a week at best if we conserve mana stones. For the personal wards?” She shook her head. “Less.”
Seeker’s gaze swept across the walls, his unit scattered among the defenders. Harken bellowed orders near the west tower, his shield a dented wall of steel as he rallied half of his unit archers behind him.
Liora and Marlen where with him and other half of his unit. Jara and Taren where making sure their supplies of arrows is avaliable and in good condition. Elara was scouting and bringing information about situations on other parts of sieged fortress. Even Gale was there, somewhere in the shadows, no doubt, knives glinting like silvered teeth.
Seeker’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the familiar leather grip grounding him. “We hold,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “We hold as long as we can.”
The Elves were relentless. Their siege engines rolled forward under the cover of swirling storms conjured by their mages. Arrows fell like rain, hammering against shields and helms. Spells struck the walls, battering the wards with such force that the air hummed with it, thick and charged.
Every few minutes, a blast of frost magic struck, freezing sections of the wall so cold that the stone cracked audibly. Soldiers scrambled to scrape away the ice before it weakened the structure, their hands blistered and raw. Elsewhere, fire erupted in blooms of orange and white, searing archers where they stood, leaving nothing but scorched stone and the faint, acrid scent of burning leather.
A ripple of cheers broke through the chaos when one of Torvald’s ballistae struck home, shattering an advancing siege tower into splinters. The cheer died moments later as another volley of magic roared toward the ramparts, forcing soldiers to duck low behind the stone.
By afternoon, the battle had grown teeth.
Seeker stood at the western wall, his breathing ragged as he helped haul the body of a fallen soldier away from the parapet. Blood slicked the stones beneath him, hot even in the bitter cold. He glanced down at the valley. The Elves had advanced further than he liked. Their banners were dark streaks against the snow, unfurling like wounds on the landscape.
Then came the shouting.
“Infiltrators!” The call rose from the southern gate, shrill and urgent. “They’re inside the walls!”
Seeker’s blood ran cold. He turned sharply, catching a glimpse of dark figures darting between buildings below, their movements too smooth, too quick to belong to humans. The Elves had breached the lower levels, their target clear, the supplies.
The supply depot sat near the southern walls, its low stone buildings packed with crates of rations, arrows, and precious mana stones. The Dark Elves moved through it like shadows, their curved blades flashing as they cut down guards with chilling efficiency. Fires broke out, smoke coiling up into the darkening sky like the breath of some slumbering giant.
But then the air changed.
A low hum rippled across the depot, accompanied by the faint scent of sulfur and ozone. Flames, once unchecked, froze mid-burn, their orange tongues turning solid as though caught in crystal. The Dark Elves paused, their crimson eyes narrowing.
Baroness Illara Velden stepped into the depot, her crimson cloak catching the wind like the spread of a bird of prey. Her emerald eyes blazed, and in her hands, fire churned, a swirling mass of gold and red that writhed as though alive. Around her, the mages of her circle fanned out, their robes trailing over ash-streaked snow as they raised their hands in silent unison.
“You dare to set foot in my city?” Illara’s voice was low, carrying a power that made the air ripple. The fire in her hands condensed, a single searing sphere that cast the depot in sharp relief.
The Elves hesitated for the first time.
“Now,” Illara said, her tone snapping like a whip.
The mages unleashed their spells in perfect synchrony. Flames roared through the air, streaks of orange and blue that slammed into the infiltrators with devastating force. The ground trembled as runes flared beneath the snow, releasing bursts of kinetic magic that knocked the Elves from their feet. One mage raised both hands, and the very earth split, jagged shards of stone erupting to ensnare fleeing enemies.
The Dark Elves fought back, blades flickering as they closed the distance, arrows loosed at impossible speed, but Illara was ready. She turned sharply, one hand flicking out, and a wall of fire erupted in their path. The Elves screamed as the flames swallowed them whole.
One infiltrator, taller and clad in obsidian-black armor, broke through the chaos. He surged toward the mana stones, his blade raised high, intent clear.
Illara’s emerald eyes locked onto him. With a single word, the flames around her condensed into a narrow arc of fire, a blade of pure heat that cut through the air. The Elf staggered as the attack struck him, his armor glowing red-hot before shattering like glass. He crumpled to the ground, motionless.
The battle within the depot ended as swiftly as it had begun. Smoke drifted upward, the fires snuffed out by the mages as they stood victorious. Illara lowered her hands, the glow fading from her palms as her gaze swept over the ruined depot. Supplies were scattered, some damaged, but the bulk of it, the mana stones, remained intact.
“Reinforce the walls,” she said curtly, her voice carrying over the wind. “And double the guards. We cannot afford to lose this ground again.”
Her mages nodded, moving to obey as Illara turned her gaze upward, toward the ramparts where the siege still raged. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed the battlefield. The Elves would come again. They always did.
The tent was a cathedral of shadows and silk, its vast canopy held aloft by poles carved with spiraling runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. Within, the air was thick with the scent of frost-laden earth and something older, like the breath of ancient stone. The central table was a thing of crafted beauty, a slab of polished obsidian carved to mirror the valley of Torvald. Tiny shards of crystal, glowing faintly with magic, marked the Elven formations and the human defenses.
Vaedryn stood closest to the map, his pale fingers tracing the lines of the fortress walls. “We press again at dawn,” he said, his voice like silk over steel. The dark runes etched into his gauntlet shimmered faintly with latent power. “They hold, but they bleed. Each hour we grind them down.”
“Grinding wastes time,” Karnath interrupted, his guttural voice a growl that seemed to vibrate the very air. He loomed over the map like a storm cloud, his wild auburn hair tangled around the antlers strapped to his helm. “We break the walls tonight! Tear through their shields and burn their weakling defenders.”
“And let your savages scatter like wolves in the night?” Sylvara’s voice was cool and edged with disdain. She sat poised at the far end of the table, her green cloak pooling around her like a forest in twilight. “The humans are desperate. That makes them dangerous. Their resolve must be shattered first.”
Karnath’s lip curled into a sneer. “Resolve? They cower behind walls like rats. My kin would bring them screaming into the snow before dawn.”
“Enough.” Lord Thalindor’s voice cut through the rising tension like a blade through silk. He stood apart from the others, his figure draped in immaculate robes of silver and white, his face the serene mask of someone who ruled not by force but by inevitability. He did not shout. He did not have to. The air itself seemed to still at his command.
“The humans will fall as they always do. We are not beasts at a hunt, Karnath, nor children at play. We are Elves.” Thalindor’s golden eyes gleamed faintly in the shadows, their light cold and unfeeling. “We do not strike in haste. We strike to end.”
Vaedryn inclined his head, a predatory smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lord Thalindor is correct. Every blow is calculated. We have broken stronger cities than this. Their walls fracture with every spell we weave, every siege engine we roll. By week’s end, they will beg for mercy.”
“And receive none,” Karnath muttered, though he fell back, his massive arms crossing over his chest.
Across the table, Ellarion, the Grand Magus, stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back. He was slight of build, draped in dark azure robes that glowed faintly at the seams with arcane sigils. He radiated stillness, but his presence was like a knife edge, sharp, poised. “The wards on their walls,” he said quietly, “still hold.”
All eyes turned to him.
“They are weakening,” Ellarion continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “But not quickly enough. Each strike siphons their mana stones, yes, but the humans are resilient. More so than Vaedryn’s initial reports suggested.”
Vaedryn’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and unrepentant. “Resilience is only delaying their end.”
“It is delay that concerns me,” Ellarion said. His eyes, pale and unblinking, met Vaedryn’s. “Each hour they hold is another hour for more reinforcements to arrive. Another hour of soldiers bracing themselves for martyrdom.”
Sylvara’s fingers tapped against the hilt of her knife, the subtle rhythm echoing in the hush. “The humans grow accustomed to the siege. When prey grows familiar with the predator, they start to imagine themselves predators, too.”
Vaedryn smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Then let them imagine. Hope is a sharper blade than any I wield. When I break it, they will feel the ruin of it in their bones.”
Ellarion’s gaze slid toward the dark strategist, unreadable. “Hubris is unbecoming, even for you.”
Vaedryn’s smirk turned to something colder, his voice softening to a deadly whisper. “And timidity is unbecoming of a Grand Magus.”
Lord Thalindor raised his hand, and the conversation died like a flame snuffed by the wind. The air shifted, heavier now, as though the fabric of the tent itself held its breath.
And then it came. A ripple of magic, ancient and undeniable rolled through the room. It began as a pulse, soft and distant, but it grew swiftly, deepening into a hum that resonated in the very bones of the tent’s occupants. The rune-carved poles quivered. The obsidian table dimmed, its crystals flickering like frightened stars.
All five leaders turned toward the tent’s entrance.
The flap parted without ceremony, and a figure stepped inside.
He was cloaked in shadows, his form obscured save for the faint outline of a lean, tall frame. Magic clung to him like mist, rippling and shifting in unnatural patterns. Though his face remained hidden beneath a hood, all present could feel the weight of his gaze, as though his eyes alone could strip away pretense and pride alike.
The tent’s silence deepened. Karnath, so often brash and loud, inclined his head in grudging respect. Sylvara straightened in her seat. Ellarion, who prided himself on calm indifference, took a slow step back.
And Vaedryn, the predator who wore arrogance like a second skin, bowed low.
“My lord,” Vaedryn said softly, his voice devoid of its usual edge.
The figure did not respond. He stepped forward, boots soundless against the ground, and the tension in the room grew so thick it seemed to press against the skin. The air smelled faintly of ozone, of earth after a storm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and layered with a weight that seemed to stretch beyond time.
“The Dark Elf who confronted the anomaly. Bring her.”
Vaedryn straightened, casting a sidelong glance at the others. “As you command, my lord.”
He gestured toward the tent flap. Moments later, the Dark Elf warrior, silver-haired and still streaked with the grime of battle entered. She moved with a warrior’s grace, though her steps faltered as she took in the presence of the cloaked figure. Her crimson eyes widened slightly, but she knelt immediately, bowing her head.
“My lord,” she said, her voice hoarse but steady.
The cloaked figure raised one hand, palm facing the others. The meaning was clear.
Leave.
None argued. Even Lord Thalindor inclined his head before turning to leave the tent. Karnath exited like a storm, the frustration in his every motion barely leashed. Ellarion followed without a word, though his pale eyes lingered briefly on the shadowed figure. Sylvara moved as though gliding, silent and swift, and Vaedryn, the last to leave, cast one final look over his shoulder before stepping into the night.
When the tent fell silent again, the cloaked figure turned to the kneeling warrior.
“Rise,” he said.
She did so, though her shoulders remained stiff, her gaze fixed downward.
“Report.”
She swallowed once before answering. “He is human, my lord, but he… moves as though he is not. Faster than one of us. His strikes carry the storm’s weight, lightning and thunder at his command. I could not…” She hesitated, searching for words. “He defied everything I have learned.”
The cloaked figure was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, there was something unreadable in his tone.
“Thal’noras… Yes.”
The word seemed to hang in the air, resonating with a deeper meaning. Then the figure tilted his head slightly, as though considering.
“And his control?”
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“It wavers,” she admitted. “The power is there, but it tears at him. He is not ready.”
A long silence stretched between them.
His attention remained fixed on Nyral, his unseen gaze pinning her in place. “Did he break?” he asked softly. “Did you test him?”
Nyral hesitated for the briefest of moments. “I struck him, my lord,” she said. “Pressed him. His power is raw, undisciplined, but it carries weight. He retreated in the end, but not before…” She swallowed, her pride clearly stinging at the memory. “He forced me back.”
“Come, child,” the figure said softly. He offered wine from table. His voice held none of the command it had when he dismissed the others; instead, it carried the weight of expectation, gentler, but no less immovable.
She obeyed, her posture perfect. A faint flicker of defiance lingered in her gaze as she finally looked up. Despite herself, her pride reasserted its presence, a fire she refused to let the shadowed figure extinguish.
“This training war is nothing, my lord,” she said, her tone low but firm, every word carefully measured. “The humans are rats scurrying behind their walls, and I ” her lips twitched upward, confidence shining through “I am ready for a real war.”
The silence that followed was chilling, heavier than before. The figure tilted his head ever so slightly, the movement imperceptible except for the faint shift in the shadows clinging to him. It was a subtle motion, but it made the warrior’s pride falter, as though her words had drifted into a vast abyss and returned to her weighted with something else.
“The man you encountered,” he said quietly, the calm tone somehow sharper than a shout, “should serve as a warning, not as fodder for your arrogance.”
Her brows knit faintly, though she quickly schooled her expression. “A human,” she replied, incredulous. “How could a human…? I struck him myself, my lord. I faced him, blade to blade. He was skilled, yes, fast, but…” Nyral paused, frustration clouding her tone, the words unspoken lingering in the air. But he shouldn’t have been capable of what I saw.
The shadowed figure stepped forward, his voice carrying none of her disbelief. “You ask how it is possible?” he said. “You wonder how one of such a crude and short-lived species could brush against Thal’noras itself?”
She flinched slightly at the word. Thal’noras. It was sacred. Revered. A state of being that few of her kin, even among the greatest, could ever achieve. The warrior’s pride stung at the thought of a human, of all creatures, reaching something so far beyond his place.
“Explain it to me, my lord,” Nyral said finally, her voice quiet but insistent. “How could anyone, let alone him, do what he did?”
The mystic’s cloak shifted as if the shadows around him were alive, curling closer with every word. “Understand this, child,” he began, his tone measured, like a teacher explaining a dangerous lesson. “Every species has its strength, its gift. The zoomorphs wield body magic enhancements of sinew and bone better than any other. They become their magic, shifting their bodies into weapons or armor, tools crafted by will and blood. A rare few can combine body magic with elemental power shamans, they are called rulers and leaders in their savage tribes. To them, the ability to wield both aspects of magic is a mark of divinity.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
“And we Elves,” he continued, “are masters of the elements. Fire, ice, stone, wind, ours is the magic of the world itself, and we bend it to our will. We are the conduits of its power, the sculptors of storms. But even among us, there are those who rise above. Those who can wield both the might of the body and the song of the elements.” He lifted a hand, the faintest shimmer of magic coiling around his palm like a serpent made of starlight. “The Thal’noras.”
The Nyral breath caught, reverence flickering in her eyes. “But… the Thal’noras are rare,” she whispered. “Few are chosen. Fewer survive the training.”
“Yes,” the mystic figure agreed, letting the magic fade from his hand. “Because the power to wield both forms of magic is not merely strength—it is understanding. Harmony. A unity of body, mind, and the threads of mana that weave the world together.” He stepped closer, his voice softening, though it only made his presence more terrifying. “And yet… the humans. The humans can wield both without restriction.”
Nyral eyes widened at that, disbelief flashing across her face. “Impossible.”
“Is it?” he asked, his tone unreadable. “No. Not impossible. Just… unlikely. Their potential is limitless, yet they squander it with ignorance. They are born with mana untouched, unshaped, and so they stumble through their short lives with no concept of what they carry within. It is not their blood that fails them, it is their minds. Their lack of knowledge, of understanding, of the discipline to shape their power into something worthy of the name.”
The Nyral swallowed, the pieces slowly falling into place in her mind. “Then the man I faced—”
“—has taken his first step where most of his kind will never walk,” the figure finished, his voice quiet but charged. “For an Initiate to touch Thal’noras, even for a heartbeat, is unprecedented. It should not be possible. And yet, it happened.”
Her pride flared again, warring with her growing unease. “Then he is an anomaly.”
“A dangerous anomaly,” the figure corrected. “Or perhaps… an opportunity.”
The room grew colder, though no wind stirred the tent. The Nyral shoulders stiffened. “You would train him? A human?” There was a note of disbelief in her tone. Almost disgust.
“Only if he can be controlled,” the mystic replied. “And if he cannot…” He let the silence answer for him.
She straightened, her voice sharpening as she regained her composure. “Then he will be killed.”
“Yes,” the figure said. “And you, child, will ensure that he does not take another step toward what he might become.” His tone was calm, yet there was no mistaking the command in his words. “I do not underestimate humans. And neither should you. His survival, his power, and his control, these are things we must decide. If he can be tamed, we will mold him into a weapon. If not, he will die before he becomes a threat.”
The Nyral nodded, her jaw set. “As you command.”
The figure regarded her for a long moment, his expression hidden by the shadows. “You carry the fire of our kind, child,” he said at last. “But fire consumes as easily as it warms. Do not let your pride blind you to the storm that approaches.”
Nyral hesitated, his words digging deeper than she cared to admit. Then she bowed once more, the gesture sharp and precise. “I will not fail.”
The mystic figure’s shadows seemed to stretch toward her, curling like fingers of smoke, as if tasting her resolve. “See that you don’t,” he said softly. “For failure is not an option.”
The Nyral turned and strode from the tent, her steps purposeful but heavy with the weight of what had been said. As she passed through the flap into the cold night air, her mind churned with thoughts of the human, of his speed, his power, the way the storm had answered him. Thal’noras. She hated that word in the same breath that it fascinated her.
And behind her, alone in the shadows, the mystic lingered. The faint hum of his magic pulsed once more, and his voice, barely a whisper, carried through the darkness.
“Interesting indeed.”
The parapet stones were slick with frost, the cold leaching through Count Torvald’s gloves as he braced his hands against the wall. Beyond, the battlefield stretched like a great canvas of despair, dark Elven banners rippling in the harsh wind, siege engines lumbering forward like beasts of burden, and thin ribbons of smoke drifting lazily toward the bruised-gray sky. The snow lay trampled and stained, marked by the desperate scuffles of soldiers clinging to life against an enemy that would not relent.
Torvald’s dark eyes narrowed as he observed a patch of movement near the center of the Elven lines: a fresh line of mages weaving frost and fire into tight, disciplined spells. Their power rippled through the air in waves, bending toward the fortress walls like an unending tide. Somewhere below, the wards hummed and flickered, their light pulsing faintly in response to every blow.
Beside him stood Edran Faltir, the Archduke’s emissary. His immaculate black-and-gold cloak swirled at the edges as the wind whipped around them, though the man himself stood as still as a statue. He held no gloves to shield his pale, tapered hands from the cold, no scarf to hide the sharp lines of his face. Faltir did not shiver, nor did he flinch when a distant ballista volley shattered in midair under a surge of Elven magic. If he felt the weight of the siege, it did not show. Where Torvald was stone, Venn was ice, sharp, clear, and unyielding.
“They’ve adjusted,” Torvald muttered, his voice a low rumble, as though he spoke more to himself than to the man beside him. “Those mages are focusing their fire on specific sections of the wards. The weakest spots.”
“Clever,” Faltir replied, his tone smooth, conversational. “It’s a tactic as old as war itself. Chip at the cracks until the wall falls. And fall it will, Count. Unless the cracks are sealed.”
Torvald’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he cast his gaze to the smoldering remnants of the supply wagons inside the fortress courtyard. The attack earlier that day, a precise strike by infiltrating Dark Elves had set two wagons ablaze before Illara’s mages drove them back. But the damage had been done. The smoke still hung in the air, sharp and acrid, like a bitter reminder of the knife edge they teetered upon.
“Losing those supplies changes the calculus,” Torvald said finally, his voice gravel grinding over the wind. “We rationed tightly enough to hold for three months. Now? Two, at best.”
“And that’s being generous,” Faltir countered softly, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the distant Elven lines. “Your soldiers fight harder on empty stomachs, but empty bellies have limits. Starvation is a slow death, Count. It weakens resolve, corrodes discipline. This fortress cannot afford to linger on the edge of such collapse.”
Torvald turned to face him. “You want to cut rations.”
“Yes.”
Torvald’s face was carved from stone, but a flicker of something dangerous passed behind his eyes. “The slaves already eat half of what the soldiers do. To cut that further? They won’t survive.”
Faltir tilted his head slightly, his expression inscrutable. “Some will. And those that do will still serve their purpose.”
“Their purpose?” Torvald’s voice grew sharp, his words cutting like a knife edge. “You speak as though they’re tools, not people.”
Faltir didn’t react to the accusation. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at the courtyard below, where slaves moved in staggered lines, hauling stones, carrying water, patching crumbling sections of the outer walls. Their movements were sluggish, their gaunt faces streaked with ash and exhaustion.
“Tools are people, Count,” Faltir said coolly. “People can be shaped. Broken. Reforged. Their will like metal is something we wield. You know this as well as I.”
Torvald’s teeth clenched audibly. “You speak of shaping, but I see breaking. I’ve overseen this fortress for decades, Emissary. I’ve led men, women, yes, even slaves, through battles where every heartbeat counted. You think me sentimental, but I know what happens when you starve them. They’ll falter. They’ll collapse under their own weight before they ever lift a blade.”
Faltir turned his head, regarding the Count with a measured calm that only stoked the fires of Torvald’s frustration. “That is where you and I differ. You look at them and see fragility. I see opportunity. Hungry slaves can be shaped by a different kind of fire.”
“And when they refuse?” Torvald challenged. “When desperation turns to rebellion?”
“Then you remind them that the alternative is worse.”
Silence fell between the two men, the only sound the wind shrieking against the stone walls. For a moment, Torvald imagined throwing Faltir over the parapet, watching the man’s impeccable cloak flare as he fell, his polished voice finally silenced. But it was a fleeting, savage thought. Nothing more.
Faltir broke the silence first. “You know I’m right. The supplies are gone. You can cut the soldiers’ portions, yes, but that only weakens the fighting men you depend on to hold the walls.” He gestured subtly to the slaves below. “These people, on the other hand? They’re expendable. A resource meant to be used, not preserved.”
Torvald’s gloved hands curled into fists. “And what if they all die before the siege ends, Emissary? Who hauls the wounded? Who shovels the rubble? Who carries the stones?”
Faltir’s voice softened into something almost soothing, though it carried no warmth. “Then we send them to die elsewhere, Count. The battlefield itself is a forge, and sometimes the hammer must strike until there’s nothing left to shape.” He paused, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. “Let them bleed for us. A dozen slaves sent to sabotage the Elven camps, suicidal as it may be, will keep the enemy off balance for days. Days we need. Every hour matters now. Every choice.”
Torvald looked away, staring out at the distant enemy lines. Siege towers lumbered forward, smoke billowing from braziers prepared to launch burning pitch. The Elven banners snapped sharply in the wind, their insignias stark and clean against the gray horizon. Venn’s words slithered in his ears like frostbite, numbing and cruel. He hated them. Hated their truth.
But truth they were.
“You win this argument, Emissary,” Torvald said finally, his voice low and bitter. “Cut the rations. A quarter.”
Faltir inclined his head, the faintest shadow of satisfaction flickering across his sharp features. “A wise decision.”
Torvald turned back toward the courtyard, his dark eyes settling on the slaves still trudging through their endless tasks. He watched them for a long moment, his thoughts heavy with a burden he would never speak aloud.
“Prepare the skirmishing parties,” Torvald said, his voice flat. “If they must die, then let them buy us the time we need.”
“As you wish, Count.” Faltir’s tone was respectful, but the glint in his eyes betrayed the truth. He had expected nothing less.
The two men stood in silence then, the wind howling between them. Torvald felt the weight of every life in his fortress pressing down upon him, every crack in the walls a reminder of how close they were to ruin. The Archduke’s emissary had won this debate, but victory had never felt so hollow.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the wind’s lonely howl, as Count Torvald gripped the frost-rimed parapet, his knuckles white beneath his gloves. Faltir had retreated, the man’s cloaked figure fading into the depths of the fortress, but his words remained cold and immovable, like a stone wedged in Torvald’s gut.
Expendable. A resource.
He exhaled sharply, the sound a low hiss between his teeth, and forced his gaze back to the battlefield. The Elves’ siege lines seemed to creep forward with the inevitability of a glacier, an iron promise etched across the land. Siege towers lumbered onward, the smoke of pitch fires curling into the sky like dark offerings. Every inch gained was bought with blood, and yet the Elves paid it willingly. As if they knew they couldn’t lose.
As he turned his gaze southward, his thoughts half-formed, the horizon snatched his breath away.
A storm was coming.
It began as a smudge, a deep blue smear against the distant gray of snowbound peaks. Not the black-bellied thunderclouds of ordinary tempests, but something brighter, sharper, as though the heavens themselves had been slashed open, spilling raw, electric light across the world. The clouds swirled like a living thing, streaked with veins of blue that pulsed faintly, beating with the rhythm of a distant heart.
Torvald turned sharply, striding back toward the keep, his boots striking hard against the frost-coated stone. Behind him, the light grew stronger, pulsing against the darkening sky.
The storm had seen them.
Seeker stood atop the wall, his breath fogging in the frigid air as he nocked an arrow. His fingers were steady despite the tremor of exhaustion running through his limbs. All around him, Torvald’s defenders moved like desperate machinery, wounded soldiers dragging themselves into position, commanders screaming orders that were drowned in the din of war, and mages muttering incantations that shimmered faintly against the cold wind.
The siege was in full swing now.
Below, the Elven assault surged forward with unrelenting fury, each faction playing its part in perfect, ruthless harmony. The High Elves at the center conjured blinding glyphs of raw power, their wards and spells crashing against Torvald’s defenses like waves of light against the cliffs. Each strike was calculated, targeted, like a scalpel slicing open a vein. Wards flared across the walls, shining gold and blue as they absorbed the magic, but cracks were beginning to spiderweb along the runes etched into the stone.
“Steady!” a commander shouted. “Reinforce those wards! Hold!”
To Seeker’s right, a Magus thrust her hands forward, veins of white-blue light tracing through her palms as she fed the wards more mana. The air grew heavier, charged with electricity and pressure, as the next Elven blast struck. It exploded across the surface of the wall, a shockwave that sent several soldiers staggering and left the stone beneath their feet steaming.
How long can this hold? Seeker thought grimly, but there was no time to ponder.
At the base of the walls, the Wild Elves hurled themselves forward like a force of nature, bare-chested, their war paint streaked with crimson and ochre. They carried crude but deadly weapons, axes that looked like they had been hewn from the bones of ancient beasts and stone-tipped spears that gleamed in the firelight. They moved with a terrible, primal speed, scrambling over their fallen kin to throw themselves against the gates and lower ramparts.
“Madmen,” Harken growled beside him, raising his shield as another spear shattered against its face.
Seeker ignored the chaos, his focus narrowing to the arrow nocked against his string. The bow was crude compared to what the Elves wielded, but that didn’t matter. He pulled the string back, the tension a familiar strain in his shoulders. Beneath his skin, mana stirred, sluggish at first, then eager, a current that hummed against his bones. He let it flow into the arrow, the wood vibrating faintly as light threaded along its shaft.
Focus. Don’t let it take over.
He exhaled and loosed.
The arrow screamed through the air like a streak of silver light, striking the chest of a Wild Elf mid-leap. The blast of mana sent the warrior sprawling backward, colliding with two others behind him in a tangle of limbs and dust. Seeker was already reaching for the next arrow.
Another pull. Another release.
The second arrow found a siege engineer, one of the High Elves crouched beside a glowing siege engine, his fingers dancing over the spell-runes carved into the machine’s frame. The arrow hit like a thunderclap, shattering the glyph and sending a pulse of energy rippling outward. The High Elf tumbled, screaming, as the machine crackled and erupted in flame.
Seeker didn’t allow himself to smile. For every victory, the enemy seemed to multiply.
Wood Elves fired volleys of arrows so precise it was as if they’d been fired by the same hand. The projectiles fell in synchronized arcs, cutting down defenders along the parapets with horrifying precision. Seeker saw one man take an arrow through the eye as he turned to shout an order, his body crumpling like discarded cloth. Another soldier, one of the younger recruits, stumbled back with three arrows piercing his shield before a fourth found his leg.
Seeker cursed and loosed another arrow, the mana flaring brighter this time as he struck a Wood Elf archer perched on a ridge below. The Elf fell, though Seeker wasn’t sure it mattered. For every enemy he struck, another took their place.
And then there were the Dark Elves.
They were shadows, barely glimpsed in the smoke and fire, figures that flickered like phantoms at the edges of the battlefield. They moved in silence, their armor sleek and light, their black blades gleaming like obsidian. Seeker could feel their presence more than see it, as though they pressed against the corners of his mind like a whisper he couldn’t hear.
Near the gates, the darkness rippled, and Seeker watched in dismay as two defenders crumpled without a sound. A moment later, their killers melted back into the smoke.
“Eyes open!” he shouted to the others, his voice ragged. “Watch the shadows!”
A fresh wave of explosions rocked the ramparts. More Wild Elves swarmed toward the gates. High Elven siege engines rumbled forward under shimmering shields of magic. Arrows, spells, and war cries blended into a single, deafening roar, and Seeker felt himself losing track of it all.
That was when the fairy screamed.
“Seeker!”
Her voice wasn’t the sharp, sarcastic edge he’d grown used to. It was high, almost panicked, and it tore through the chaos like a blade. She darted into view, her wings a blur, her glow bright enough to sting his eyes.
“What?” Seeker growled, his chest heaving as he pulled back another arrow.
“The storm!” she shrieked, pointing south with one trembling hand. “It’s coming! An Awakening Storm!”
Seeker turned his head sharply, his gaze following her outstretched arm. Beyond the battlefield, beyond the walls, the southern sky churned with an unnatural glow, blue and bright, so vivid it painted the snow-drenched peaks in sapphire light. The clouds pulsed like the heart of something vast and ancient, moving with an intent that made Seeker’s skin crawl.
The storm stretched across the horizon, devouring the mountains in its path, roiling closer with every beat of his heart. Blue lightning crackled within it, forking and flickering like living veins, and the wind began to rise a sharp, high keening sound that tugged at cloaks and banners even from this distance.
Seeker’s mouth went dry. He felt the mana within him stir, like an animal caught in the gaze of a predator.
“What is that?” Sarra shouted from nearby, shielding her face against the growing wind.
“An Awakening Storm,” the fairy said again, her voice smaller this time, filled with dread. “It’s not the Elves. It’s older. Wilder.”
Seeker could only stare. The light from the storm painted the battlefield in a surreal glow, as though the world itself were caught between reality and something other. The Elves had seen it too. For the first time since the siege began, they hesitated.
High Elven mages faltered mid-incantation, their glowing glyphs wavering. Wild Elves slowed, their war cries trailing off into confusion. Wood Elves lowered their bows, staring toward the south with wide, calculating eyes. The Dark Elves, hidden as they were, seemed to pull back as though even they feared what was coming.
The battlefield froze. For the span of a breath, it was as though the world held still, thousands of soldiers, Elves and humans alike, staring toward the approaching storm.
And then the first pulse of thunder rolled across the land.
It wasn’t like normal thunder, sharp and loud, something that could be heard. No, this was something deeper. It was felt, vibrating through the earth and into bone, resonating with some primal part of Seeker’s mind that screamed at him to run.
“Seeker,” the fairy said, her voice almost pleading now. “It’s here.”
The storm pulsed, its light flaring brighter, and the first gust of its wind reached the walls, icy and sharp, filled with the scent of something metallic and electric.
The Awakening Storm had come.