The stench of boiled bark hits first, a sour tang in the air that clings to the back of the throat. The cooking fire sputters beneath a dented cauldron, where strips of tree bark float in cloudy water. Every so often, someone stirs the murky broth, staring numbly at the pot as though expecting some miracle to emerge. Nearby, two rebels crouch in the mud, gnawing on the stringy remains of a half-rotten horse leg, the flesh barely enough to fill their hollow cheeks.
A lean Siza chieftain named Hzal lurches past them, trying not to retch at the sight. His armor, once polished, is tarnished by filth and the dried remains of past battles. He stops when he sees a small group of warriors slumped against the courtyard wall—silent, sallow-skinned, and sunken-eyed.
One man clutches a piece of horsemeat, but he’s too weak to lift it to his cracked lips. Another’s face is speckled with blisters from thirst, eyes rolled back as he sways on his knees.
Hzal’s voice trembles with forced authority. “We haven’t heard from the watch in hours. Does anyone know what’s happening on the walls?”
A slow, pained silence answers him. The men glance at one another, each waiting for someone else to speak. Finally, a scrawny warrior with bloodshot eyes mumbles, “No one’s come down. Might’ve run out of water days ago.”
Hzal’s jaw clenches. “On your feet,” he orders, though there’s no menace behind it—only desperation. “We’re going up there ourselves.”
Most of them try to rise, but only two manage more than a half-hearted lurch. Hzal grimaces, then beckons for the stronger pair to follow. They pick their way past bodies—some breathing shallowly, some already stiffening in death—until they reach the winding steps that spiral up to the city’s ramparts.
With each step, the odor of rot thickens. Hzal notices flies gathering on the walkway. The faint hum of their wings sets his teeth on edge. At the top of the stairs, the first thing they see is a fallen sentry, arms sprawled wide, lips cracked open in a silent plea for water. His waterskin is clutched in a clawed grip—completely empty.
One of Hzal’s companions spits a curse, kicking aside a broken spear. He stoops to check for a breath. “He’s gone,” the warrior mutters, shaking his head. Next to the corpse, another sentinel lies facedown, unmoving. The acrid smell from his soiled trousers mingles with the dust. No life in him either.
Hzal’s heart pounds. He quickens his pace along the rampart. More bodies. Some look like they simply lay down to rest and never got back up. Others still breathe in ragged, rattling gasps, too drained to protest as crows circle overhead.
“Water,” croaks one man with a shredded standard clutched in his trembling fist. He tries to rise, but collapses back against the wall, eyes rolling up. “Please…”
Hzal presses a hand to the warrior’s forehead—feverish. “We’ll bring help,” he promises, though he has nothing left to give. The emptiness in his own gut reminds him how meaningless that vow might be.
He forces himself to the outer edge of the wall, peering over the side to see if there’s any sign of relief—maybe a caravan, maybe something. Instead, what he witnesses steals the breath from his lungs.
“Gods spare us,” Hzal breathes. He gestures frantically for the others to come look. Below, in the distance, the Moukopl forces work like tireless ants. Hundreds of them shovel earth, hammer stakes, raise wooden frames. A massive dike swells around the city’s southeast flank. Soldiers guide pack animals carrying sacks of dirt, piling them higher and higher, building a fortress of soil against the city walls.
One of Hzal’s men staggers beside him, eyes wide. “They’re… they’re gonna drown us all,” he says hoarsely.
“Or starve us first,” Hzal whispers, voice trembling with a mix of horror and fury.
Behind them, a dying watchman manages a cough that sounds more like a death rattle. “We can’t hold out… no more… water.”
Hzal’s hands clench around the rampart’s cold stone. His gaze locks onto the Moukopl lines far below—so methodical, so merciless. Every shovelful of earth marks another step toward annihilation. The warrior in him wants to howl a battle cry, to fling himself over these walls and tear into the enemy. Instead, he just stands there, shaking.
“Damn them all,” Hzal growls. “They know we’re dying up here and they don’t even need to lift a sword. They’re using the land itself to break us.”
Suddenly, a lone slender figure approaches. Long red hair tangles in the wind, eyes burning with a feverish intensity. His presence—firm, upright despite the ruin all around—forces Hzal to straighten, every nerve prickling.
“Linh,” Hzal exhales, stepping around a fallen sentry. “When did you get up here?”
Linh glances at the corpse by his feet but doesn’t acknowledge it. He lifts his face to the swirling skies, voice unexpectedly soft, almost philosophical. “There’s an old poem,” he begins, “one we recited whenever the rains threatened our crops. My father used to whisper it on stormy nights.”
He closes his eyes, as though recalling the exact words:
When the waters come and swallow the land,
We pray to stand or learn to swim,
For the flood cares not for blade or brand,
Only those who can change within.
Hzal stares, half hypnotized by Linh’s calm demeanor. A few other warriors, lured by the unfamiliar sound of something that isn’t a death rattle or a cry for water, gather closer. Their hollow eyes flick between Hzal and Linh, restless but curious.
Linh sweeps an arm toward the soaked plain below, where soldiers move in silhouette, building their watery siege. “You see them? They know the tide is turning. They have enough men and steel to let nature do their work. We could watch from these walls until we perish from thirst.”
Murmurs rise in the crowd. One warrior, gaunt-cheeked, grips his spear so tightly his knuckles whiten. “We can’t even hold a sword.”
Linh’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You can still breathe, can’t you?”
A broken laugh escapes Hzal. “Barely. Linh, your words might stir hearts, but... We can’t fend them off. Our people are half dead.”
“That’s precisely why it must be now,” Linh insists. He paces the wall, stepping around emaciated bodies as though walking between autumn leaves. “Water will come. They plan to drown this city, but we can wield that water if we harness it well.”
“Impossible,” Hzal mutters. “We have no strength left to build or fight. Some of these men can’t even stand.”
Linh’s lips curl into something akin to a smile—though it’s more unnerving than reassuring. “Then let them rest. Or die. We have over forty thousand breathing bodies in these walls. They don’t all need to lift a sword.”
A chill runs through the onlookers. One of the watchers on the rampart shifts uncomfortably. “We can’t just send unarmed folks to the front. They’d be slaughtered in minutes.”
“No,” Linh agrees quietly. “Those who can hold an axe, who can chop trees and carry lumber, will do so.”
“And the rest?” Hzal challenges, brow furrowed. “What about the children, the elderly... the half-dead?”
Linh stops pacing. He turns, the torchlight dancing across his face, revealing the savage determination etched there. “Food.”
A stunned hush drops like a guillotine. Warriors and chieftains exchange horrified glances, as though the mere word has burned their ears. A young fighter retches, pressing a hand to his mouth. Another curses, stepping back in revulsion.
“You’re mad,” someone breathes.
Linh’s voice sharpens. “Look around you—there’s no farmland left, no livestock. The bark you’re boiling is worthless. People are collapsing. Dead bodies are piling up anyway. We can either watch each other rot—or we can feed those strong enough before the Moukopl’s water does the job for them.”
One of the chieftains draws a shaky breath. “This is monstrous. It’s not what the Siza stand for... it... it’s—”
“It’s survival,” Linh snaps. “Our foes intend to drown us like rats. They won’t negotiate. They have more warriors, more cannons, more time. We have the living flesh still in these walls. Let me ask you—” his voice drops, almost mocking, “—would you rather starve?”
The group reels in shock, but in each sunken face is the knowledge of their reality. They have seen corpses devoured by rats, watched friends chew on rancid horse bones. Linh’s suggestion is an extension of the horror they already inhabit.
Hzal’s breath shakes. He remembers the poem, the verse about adapting or perishing. Adrenaline burns through his weakness, fueling a final shred of resolve. Slowly, he nods, meeting Linh’s eyes. “We have no other way.”
A tear slides down the cheek of a warrior who stands nearby. He looks at Hzal, voice quivering with desperation. “We’d be no better than monsters.”
Hzal, jaw clenched, doesn’t look away from Linh. “Maybe. But we’ll at least be monsters who can stand a chance.” He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling. “Gather the chieftains. Spread the word. Anyone able to lift an axe must meet at sunrise. The rest... if they are willing... will feed us.”
A sob escapes from a disheveled fighter in the corner. Others murmur curses, prayers, or nothings. Linh turns toward the darkness.
...
A brackish wind sweeps through An’alm’s battered streets, carrying the scent of burnt timber and stale misery. The ragged procession trudges forward: Linh at the front, silent and unflinching, Hzal by his side, and a dozen grim-faced warriors trailing behind. Their ranks swell with every turn, forming a makeshift militia of starved, hollow-eyed men. Footsteps crunch on broken cobblestone, the steady beat echoing like a death knell.
They reach a cramped market square where families huddle in clusters. Some hide children behind skirts or push elders behind makeshift barricades—tattered blankets draped over crates. It never works. One of Linh’s men unfurls a long strip of parchment bearing names scrawled in shaky ink.
“We need a thousand!” the warrior bellows, his voice cracking. “Stand when your name is called. Now!”
Dread ripples across the crowd. A mother clutches her crying infant. A young man locks arms with his father, who trembles with palsied limbs. When the warrior recites a name, someone steps forward—sometimes defiant, sometimes resigned.
“Spare my wife,” a middle-aged man pleads, shielding her with his body. “Take me instead! Please!”
Hzal’s gaze flickers, momentarily softer. But Linh is unmoved. His cold stare pins the man like a spear.
“Both of you,” Linh orders, voice quiet yet absolute. “We already have the count.”
The mother wails as two of the militia seize them. The warriors’ grips are iron, hauling the pair off. The father’s eyes burn with silent hatred; the mother’s sobs trail behind like an echo. The crowd murmurs, shifting in dread. Another name is read, and a child stands up, eyes wide and tear-streaked.
“No,” a frantic relative howls, lunging forward. “Not her!” He tries to yank the child back into hiding, but a spear whips through the air, catching him across the throat. Blood spatters the stones. The child, spattered red, simply gawks at the gurgling figure. Her eyes roll into shock, but a guard drags her onward.
In some corners, a few older folks step out willingly. They kneel, tears running down gaunt faces, as if relieved to sacrifice themselves so younger kin might live. Their departure garners hushed prayers from those left behind. But the quiet is soon shattered when the next name belongs to someone less willing, and the struggle repeats—begging, shrieks, forced removal.
Hzal sets his jaw tight, forcing each step, each demand, each name. He looks to Linh once or twice, seeking a glimmer of mercy in that stony visage, but finds none.
...
Night falls, and the pungent smell of stew permeates the battered streets. Cauldrons bubble over improvised fires. In the flickering glow, workers gather—those strong enough to swing an axe. They eat first, ladles trembling in their hands as they fill shallow bowls. Eyes dart away from each other, not wanting to dwell on the origin of the soup’s dark chunks. Still, the desperate hunger overshadows revulsion. Some devour it in greedy gulps, others force it down with grim determination.
Linh waits on the sidelines, head bent toward the flames. When he’s finally served, a hush falls as people watch him sip. He doesn’t even flinch.
Then, bowl in hand, Linh gathers more of that grisly stew in a clay jar. Without a word, he leaves the fires, heading across the city’s labyrinth of alleys. Hzal watches him go, eyes shadowed by flickering orange light.
At the cottage’s threshold, Linh pauses, wiping sweat and grime from his face. The small door creaks open. Inside, the air is stale, tinged with a faint medicinal odor—Mihin’s leftover herbs. Darkness lies thick; only a single stub of candle flickers on a low table, revealing Mihin’s frail figure curled on a thin pallet.
She stirs at his entrance. “Linh?” she whispers, voice frayed.
He sets down the clay jar, stepping closer. “I brought food,” he says, gentler than usual. His manner cracks at the edges, betraying the fatigue etched into his features.
She turns her face away. “I’m not hungry.”
Linh’s tone hardens. “You haven’t eaten in days.”
She shakes her head, blindfolded eyes drooping. “I know what it is,” she murmurs, a quiet despair in her voice. “You don’t need to tell me.”
He stiffens, forcing a tight smile. “You need strength. We’re almost at the breaking point.”
“No.” She cradles her arms around herself. “Nothing matters. If that stew is from our own people, then we are already damned.”
His patience snaps. “Don’t be weak!” He lunges forward, seizing her wrist in a bruising grip. “Eat.”
She whimpers as he tries to lift the spoon to her lips. The broth sloshes, dripping onto the floorboards. “Stop it!” she pleads, tears streaming from sightless eyes. She tries to twist free, but Linh’s grip is unyielding.
“Mihin,” he growls, struggling to keep his frustration in check, “We can’t afford compassion for corpses. Their bodies feed the living. That’s the reality now. It’s the only way.”
She gags, forcing the spoon away. “I don’t want to,” she murmurs between sobs. “I want to join them.”
Linh’s eyes flash, a momentary pang cutting through his anger. He sets the spoon down, pressing both hands on her shoulders. “No,” he says fiercely. “You can’t. You’re not weak. You’re a great witch—the daughter of Nahaloma. You hear me? I won’t let any of these starving fiends set their sights on you. Never.”
Her tears patter onto the dusty floor. The weight of guilt, sorrow, and the atrocities around them crushes her voice to a trembling rasp. “What does it matter? We’re lost, Linh.”
He inhales sharply, lifting her chin with surprising gentleness. “It matters because we’re alive. Because with your power—my power—we can shape what comes next. You are not to be sacrificed. I’ll kill a hundred warriors before they lay a hand on you.”
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Slowly, he draws her closer, letting her lean into his chest as tears soak into his ragged tunic. His nails dig into the wooden spoon as he picks it up again, more carefully this time. “Just one sip,” he pleads, quieter now, though no less insistent.
Her lips part in defeated resignation, and he guides the spoon to her mouth. She drinks, shuddering with each swallow, tears leaking steadily from beneath the blindfold. Her face contorts in revulsion, but the starvation pang in her belly outweighs the horror.
He sets the bowl aside and gently cups her face, smoothing damp hair from her forehead. “This is how we survive,” he mutters, voice thick. “Until the day we can rise again from these ruins. I swear, I will take vengeance on the Moukopl for driving us to this.”
She says nothing, curling into herself, trembling. The candle guttering on the table casts wavering shadows on the cottage walls, as if the flicker of flame mirrors the fragile heartbeat of the city. Outside, the howling wind merges with distant cries—both a lament for the world they once knew and a dirge for whatever is left of their humanity.
...
A single lantern throws crooked shadows against the canvas walls of the command tent. Outside, the distant din of hammering and shovel-work continues—rhythmic, unrelenting. Jin Na steps inside, dust clinging to his uniform as he pushes aside the heavy flap. His eyes move quickly over the sparse furniture: a low table strewn with maps, a chest of supplies, and the tall figure of Li Song standing motionless at the far end.
“General,” Jin Na begins, voice tight. He bows his head in respect, then straightens. “I’ve just come from the southeastern perimeter. There’s been no movement atop the walls for days. No torches, no watchmen. I’m beginning to suspect they’ve starved themselves out.” His tone wavers, revealing a faint thread of hope. “Perhaps we could attempt scaling the walls again—take the city without drowning it.”
Li Song’s gaze remains fixed on the dark outline of the city beyond the tent’s entrance. His shoulders are rigid beneath his cloak, and when he speaks, his voice comes cold and certain. “No,” he murmurs. “They’re not dead. Not by a long shot.”
Jin Na blinks, uncertain. “But... the walls have been silent for so long—”
“Men don’t simply lie down and rot overnight in a city that size,” Li Song cuts in, eyes dark with a grim certainty. “Trust me, Jin Na. They’re alive in there. Eating one another, if I had to guess.”
A tremor runs through Jin Na. He stares at Li Song’s back, mouth slightly parted. “Eating... each other?” he echoes, incredulous. “You can’t really mean—there’s no proof...”
Li Song turns slowly, his face etched with a shadow of old horrors. “Jin Na,” he says, tone sharp as a blade. “You’ve seen nicks and bruises of war, yes, but never a full siege. I have. I’ve watched children claw flesh from corpses when rations dried up. I’ve seen entire families draw lots to decide who would be sacrificed for food. I once found a man who cut off his own foot to feed his starving wife and child.” His voice dips lower, a bitter scorn clinging to every word. “You think that’s the worst? I recall stumbling across a pile of bones so carefully stripped, you’d swear animals had done it—except there were footprints, not pawprints, all around.”
Jin Na’s breathing grows uneven. He closes his eyes as if to block out Li Song’s gruesome imagery, but the words linger, scalding his mind. “That’s... monstrous,” he mutters.
A wry laugh escapes Li Song. “War reduces us all. Some cling to shreds of dignity, but not in sieges. In these hellish walls, even dignity is devoured.” His gaze drops to a half-finished map on the table, the shape of An’alm scrawled in red. “They’ll hold out for years, surviving on whatever vile means keep them breathing. No matter how silent they are, you can bet they’re fighting tooth and claw for every scrap.”
Jin Na’s jaw tenses. He imagines the horror behind those massive walls—families turning on one another, bodies stripped of flesh, a city rotting from within. It makes his stomach churn. “Then...”
Li Song’s eyes flick back to the city’s silhouette through the tent flap. For a heartbeat, he stands motionless. Then he speaks with chilling finality:
“We flood it. Cleanse this stench with holy water.”
...
A dull, pre-dawn hush smothers An’alm—until a thunderous crack fractures the sky. For one paralyzing second, every living soul seems to freeze. Then the roar of water explodes across the southeastern edge of the city.
A delirious watchman perched on a collapsed tower flings his arms wide. “The dike—gods, the dike’s given way!” he screams, his voice raw with terror. Before anyone can react, a surge of dark, frothing water slams into the lower districts, ripping entire sections of stone and timber from their foundations.
Down in the streets, a panicked trio of rebel scouts sprint through the mist, nearly colliding with a wagon. One scout grabs the driver by the collar. “Move! The flood’s here!” But the man’s eyes remain locked on the rushing torrent. Horses tied to the wagon shriek, kicking at the harness, foam flying from their nostrils. They stampede wildly, dragging the cart into a whirlpool of debris and shattered beams.
“Nahaloma! Save us!” a woman wails from a second-floor window. She tries to hoist her two children onto a rickety plank that juts between rooftops. The plank creaks ominously, but she has no choice; below, the water devours the ground with relentless hunger, planks snapping like kindling.
Screams mix with the roar of water as the flood tears down alleyways, sweeping away everything in its path—buckets, crates, the limp bodies of those who couldn’t climb fast enough. A group of families clings to a cracked stone ledge. One father forces his child upward, pressing him toward a flimsy window above. The child’s hands claw at the sill. But a violent wave engulfs the father from behind, and he vanishes beneath the frothing current.
From a vantage point on the half-collapsed city wall, Hzal watches, gut twisted by the unfolding horror. This is the moment they all dreaded. He sees entire neighborhood blocks submerge beneath swirling brown waters. Figures dot the rooftops—some weeping, some shouting prayers that dissolve into the tumult. Beside Hzal, a young rebel with hollow cheeks shouts over the cacophony, voice cracking with fear:
“Chieftain! The water’s rising too fast—we can’t help them!”
Hzal clenches his fists until his nails cut into his palms. “We save who we can,” he snaps, though the despair in his eyes betrays him. “Get ropes, planks—anything to pull survivors off the lower levels!”
But below, the current smashes through the market square, surging into the final, meager fortifications thrown up by the starving defenders. Bodies slam against half-submerged barricades, limbs tangling in cloth and rope. The screams intensify as families scramble onto rooftops littered with rubble.
A makeshift walkway bridging two houses splits in half under the crushing force. “Jump!” a trembling youth hollers to an elderly neighbor. The old woman closes her eyes and leaps, but her grip slips in midair. She crashes into the torrent with a sickening splash. The youth lunges to catch her, but a huge fragment of dike debris surges past, carrying her away in seconds.
Up on an improvised watchtower, two archers freeze, watching the watery devastation devour their city. They exchange a horrified glance. One forcibly tears his gaze from the sight and calls out, voice trembling with urgent hopelessness: “Everyone—climb higher! Get to the top floors!”
But even top floors are no guarantee. The water’s relentless roar shakes foundations, dislodging old beams and timbers that topple in lethal avalanches of stone and mud. A tall building leans and collapses in a cloud of shattered brick. Dust mingles with the rising waters, forming a choking haze. Ghostly silhouettes clamber over the rubble, begging for help, for rope, for mercy.
Near the southeast gate, a battered pair of rebel soldiers frantically wrangle survivors onto the gatehouse roof. “Come on!” one soldier yells, voice strained. “Move—move!” He extends a trembling hand to a teenage girl soaked to the bone. She stares up at him, breath ragged, water swirling around her waist. With a burst of adrenaline, she lunges for his hand, and he hauls her onto the ledge. Thunder booms overhead, as if the heavens themselves have joined the siege.
Everywhere, there is chaos. Groans of collapsing timber, the hiss of swirling currents, pleas that cut short beneath the deafening flood. Through it all, the early dawn light bleeds across the sky, revealing in harsh clarity the city’s devastation. It’s as though the sun itself recoils, casting faint beams on the watery grave below.
Atop the wall, Hzal can only watch, rage and helplessness colliding in his chest. His teeth clench so tightly it feels like they might shatter. A rogue wave of water slams a body against the wall below, the dead man’s eyes open wide in a final, silent question. Hzal turns away, trembling.
“This is it,” he mutters to no one in particular, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “This is how they drown us like rats.”
...
The cottage walls groan against the sudden chill in the air, dampness creeping upward from the flooded streets below. A sputtering lamp on the table fights the darkness, its flame trembling in the draft from cracked windows. Linh slams the warped door shut, dragging Mihin by the hand.
“Come on,” he mutters, his words tight with urgency. The boards underfoot vibrate from the relentless surge of water outside. “We need to get higher.”
Mihin stumbles over loose floorboards, her blindfold askew. “Linh… the city— It’s drowning, isn’t it?” Her voice trembles, half-choked by fear.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leads her to a small ladder in the back corner, its rungs wobbly. The attic hatch creaks open, releasing a stale gust of dust and the sharp odor of old wood. Linh pushes her up first, guiding her hands onto each rung.
When they emerge into the cramped, sloped attic, Mihin’s breath quickens. The low ceiling barely accommodates them upright. Linh sets her in a relatively dry corner near a shuttered window, pressing a frayed blanket into her arms.
A sudden gust from below chills the room, making the flame of Linh’s oil lamp dance wildly. The flood outside pulls heat from the cottage’s base, turning the interior clammy as if the walls themselves are sweating. Mihin gives a sharp shiver. Linh, jaw set, reaches for a small brazier of coals and tinder stashed in the corner—remnants from Qhuag’s old supplies. He arranges the wood methodically, flint sparking until a flicker of flame licks the tinder.
Fire crackles, bathing them in a weak glow. Mihin’s tense shoulders relax slightly at the warmth. Linh exhales, pressing a calloused hand to her cheek. “Stay here,” he instructs, voice raw with exhaustion. “I’ll get water.”
She grips his arm. “Be careful…”
Downstairs, the cottage feels colder still. The faint smell of brackish floodwater seeps under the door. Linh can almost hear it slosh against the outer walls. He steps to the fireplace—a dusty hearth battered by months of hardship—and positions a battered tin pot. There’s water in a grimy bucket by the corner—he’d scooped it from the raging torrent earlier, clearing debris as best he could.
The pot rattles as he sets it over the meager flame, the guttering sparks distorting the shadows on the walls. He shivers, refusing to let the gloom unnerve him. His eyes flick to his musket leaning near the crooked mantel. Quietly, he pats the weapon as if greeting an old ally. He checks its mechanism, the flick of a well-practiced hand ensuring the flint is firm, the barrel clear.
A scrawny cat darts across the floor, spooked by the commotion. Linh ignores it, gaze drifting to a small leather satchel half-hidden behind the hearth. A faint whiff of sulfur wafts up, but he dismisses it for now, returning his attention to the pot.
Soon, steam rises. He grips the handle, carefully returning to the attic. Mihin’s sitting upright, arms wrapped around herself. When the hot water touches her lips, tears slip from beneath her blindfold.
She gulps, voice cracking with relief. “Gods, it’s— It’s warm.”
He tries a thin smile, gently stroking her hair. “Just drink. We’ll be all right.” Her shaky hands clasp his, thankful for a moment’s respite from thirst.
In that fleeting calm, Linh kneels at the attic’s edge, adjusting the musket on his lap. The dull lamplight gleams on the weapon’s polished barrel. As Mihin sips, he runs his fingertips along the etched metal, eyes distant—contemplating the next battle, the next desperate move. A flicker of that old defiance burns in him.
Below, the door shudders, water lapping audibly against it. A pregnant silence weighs on the cottage, broken only by Mihin’s shaky breathing and the pop of embers in the brazier.
Abruptly, something rattles in the fireplace below. Perhaps a shift in the foundation or a sudden swirl of floodwater forcing itself under the threshold. Linh tenses. “Stay here,” he repeats with more urgency. “We’ll leave soon.”
Linh shoulders the musket and glances up the ladder. He spares the attic one last look, then stumbles down to brace the cottage’s door from the encroaching torrent
...
A cold dawn drapes itself over the northern wall of An’alm, the murky floodwaters below catching faint slivers of pale light. Clusters of half-starved warriors huddle on the ramparts, bent over the railings. Their breaths puff into the chill air. Each face is etched with that same grim determination—one that says we’re dead men walking, but we’ll choose how we die.
Linh steps forward, water dripping from his boots, hair matted to his skull. A few men and women salute him with trembling fists against their chests. Others nod in respect, faces hollow but resolute. The wall beneath them groans, soaked through by the flood. Makeshift wooden craft—rafts, skiffs, odd half-barrel contraptions—are lined up along the parapets, roped down to prevent them from crashing into the water prematurely.
A warrior with a bandaged arm glances at Linh. “Looks like we’ve got about… fifty. Some of ‘em might not float.” He tries for a bitter laugh, but it collapses into a cough.
Linh nods, meeting the man’s gaze. “They’ll float long enough,” he replies in a low voice. His eyes roam over the ragtag fleet: planks hammered together with scraps of rope, precariously stuffed with straw or cloth to keep them buoyant. A wave of unease ripples through the group; one glance at these contraptions is enough to realize many are tragedies waiting to happen.
Hzal approaches, sweat-streaked and trembling. He runs a hand over the largest raft, knuckles white. “They might tear us to pieces out there.”
“They will,” Linh says softly. He pulls himself onto a shaky platform, prodding it with a foot. The wood bows alarmingly but doesn’t crack—yet.
A hush settles. Dozens of rebels line the wall, arrows clutched in bony fists, bows slung over shoulders. Some carry spears strapped to their backs, others brandish battered swords. Fear churns in every heart. Linh lifts his chin, voice resonating over the hush. “We were Siza once,” he says, tone laced with a strange, fatalistic warmth. “And then the Moukopl made us animals… slaves to our hunger and desperation. They think that by flooding this city, they can watch us vanish beneath the tide.”
He pauses, scanning their hollowed eyes. “But we will not vanish. We are the tide. We have torn down trees and bones to craft these vessels. We have given our flesh and our blood to see one more sunrise. And now… we bring that sunrise into their camp.”
A ripple of uneasy agreement passes through the group. Some grip the edges of the makeshift crafts, nails biting into the wood. A younger warrior, eyes raw from sleepless nights, whispers, “My mother’s out there somewhere—drowned in the city’s lower wards. I’ll make them pay.”
Linh’s gaze flickers with dark empathy. “Me too,” he says. He raises his voice, letting it roll across the ramparts. “This is our last stand, or our first step toward freedom. If we fail, we’re no worse off than before. If we succeed, the Moukopl will tremble when they remember the day a starving city rose against them.”
A ragged cheer breaks out, more like the moan of the dying. The warriors exchange parting gestures: friends clasping forearms, sisters hugging brothers goodbye, tears glinting in their eyes. One woman kisses a locket pressed to her lips before tucking it into her shirt. Another man mutters frantic prayers under his breath.
“All right,” Linh bellows. “Push them out!”
A collective heave: ropes are cut, improvised skids start rolling. The first few rafts tip over the broken crenellations, slamming into the floodwaters with wet, thunderous splashes. Several hold steady, though they wobble fiercely. But a long, poorly bound skiff smashes apart on impact, sending four rebels plunging into the swirling currents. Their cries of panic are drowned as boards and limbs vanish beneath the water’s churn.
“Dammit!” Hzal curses, grabbing at a rope to steady the next craft. Another contingent leaps onto a raft the moment it hits the waves, bows at the ready. “Loose!” someone yells. Arrows hiss out in a blind volley, aimed at the faint silhouettes of Moukopl watchfires in the distance.
Linh sets a foot on his own battered vessel, pressing down with caution. Beneath him, the wood gives an ominous creak. He breathes through clenched teeth, then leaps aboard. The raft lurches, water sloshing over the edges, but it stays afloat. An arrow-strewn quiver slaps against his side, and the musket—his prized, battered instrument of war—lies within arm’s reach.
He throws a last look back at the wall, that battered stone barrier riddled with holes and corpses. The city behind him is a pit of sorrow; the flood ahead is certain doom. Yet here, in this moment, Linh’s eyes blaze. He raises a fist, shouting, “Strike fear into their hearts!”
A roar from the warriors echoes across the water. More rafts slide into the murk, swirling to join the haphazard flotilla. The air crackles with the tension of a thousand final breaths. Some rafts already list dangerously, water seeping through cracks, but their occupants keep paddling fiercely, spears braced.
A savage grin splits Linh’s face—part madness, part defiance. “Aim at the watchfires. Let them see we have not surrendered. Let them know we come for blood.”
The archers among them notch arrows, breathing shakily. As one, they unleash a volley that arcs high over the roiling tide, carrying the city’s vengeance upon frail shafts of wood and steel. They watch the shining missiles vanish into the gloom, hearts pounding with the terror of a suicide mission… but also the savage pride of men and women who refuse to die quietly.
The waters swirl, more rafts plunging into the fray. Some collide, snapping in half, tossing shrieking rebels into the flood’s hungry maw. Others sail forward with improbable stability, forging a ragged line ready to meet the Moukopl in a way no one could have predicted.
As they drift from the wall, the wind whips at their soaked clothes, and the hissing of arrows echoes in the night. Linh’s voice cuts through it all, carrying across the water in a final, defiant cry:
“Let them choke on our despair… and drown in our wrath!”
Slick with water and sweat, Linh’s raft bobs dangerously on the flood. Arrows still whistle through the damp air, colliding with the stone remnants of An’alm’s walls. Around him, rafts manage to stay afloat, their occupants firing back. But then a sudden hush sweeps the waters—an unnatural lull that prickles every hair on Linh’s neck.
A flash of light ripples across the murk, followed by the groan of heavy oars. From the breach in the southeast wall, towering shadows glide into view—Moukopl war junks, their ornate prows slicing through the flood like knives. Jin Na stands on the foremost deck, cloak snapping in the dawn wind. His archers fan out along the vessel’s rails, bows raised.
In a single, brutal moment, the silence shatters.
“Arrows!” Jin Na shouts, voice echoing above the splashes of oars. A hail of shafts arcs overhead, burning fuses attached to some, hissing like enraged serpents. Firecrackers explode in midair, scattering shards that slash at the rafts below. Sparks rain down on the Siza, men flailing as their skiffs catch alight or topple under shrapnel.
A deafening roar follows—Crouching Tiger cannons mounted on the junk’s lower decks blaze in quick succession. The concussive blasts rip through the water, sending up columns of spray and shredded planks. One rickety raft splinters from the force, men thrown skyward with twisted limbs. Their screams vanish as they slam down into swirling debris.
Linh yanks hard on a rope to steer his own craft aside, heart pounding. But another cannon shot detonates a heartbeat later. The wave of pressure knocks him off balance. He staggers, barely staying upright as razor-sharp fragments of a neighboring raft skitter past, impaling one of his archers through the shoulder.
“Gods, help—!” the man cries, legs kicking at the flood before he slides over the edge and disappears beneath the surface.
“Impossible!” Linh snarls, forcing himself to ignore the choking stench of singed flesh and splintered wood. He raises his arm to shield his face from the hail of debris—but he’s too late.
A thunderous crack jolts the air. Another Crouching Tiger shot tears across the water, grazing the side of Linh’s raft in an explosion of flames and shrapnel. His left arm, lifted in reflex, catches the brunt of the blast. A searing agony rips through him, hot and cold at once. The impact hurls him backward like a rag doll, nearly turning his vision white.
For a single heartbeat, Linh thinks his arm is merely broken. Then, he sees the twisted stump as crimson jets arc through the air. Flesh, bone—everything below the elbow is just… gone.
He stumbles, shock gripping his lungs, blood spattering across the raft. “N-no…!” The word tears from his throat in a ragged howl. The pain lances through his body, overwhelming sense and reason.
Suddenly, the raft tilts, a shard of battered wood lodging in Linh’s thigh. He gasps, teetering on the edge. His vision blurs with raw agony. In a final, desperate reflex, he tries to clutch the raft with his remaining hand—but the blood-soaked planks are too slick.
He topples over the side.
Water envelops him with a cold, merciless embrace, his scream drowned in the swirl of debris. Red ribbons cloud the murk. Above, war junks loom like gods of destruction, raining death on the few surviving rafts. Arrows, cannons, and the unrelenting current devour the last vestiges of the Siza’s final gamble.
Pain competes with suffocation, darkness creeping in. The dying echoes of cannon-fire rumble through the water—faint, distorted, as if mocking him from a world he no longer belongs to.
.
.
.
Linh's consciousness flickers as a firm hand suddenly pulls him up.