The horns sounded at dawn. Deep and mournful, they rolled across the city like thunder, waking even the heaviest sleepers. Clara jolted upright, her breath caught in her throat. For a heartbeat she thought it was a dream, but the second blast tore through the stillness, rattling the shutters of her chamber.Jonathan burst into her room without knocking. His hair was unkempt, his tunic hastily pulled over armor, and his face pale with urgency.“They’re here.”Two words, spoken low, yet heavy enough to make the floor seem unsteady beneath her feet.Clara rose swiftly, drawing her cloak around her shoulders. “The enemy?” she asked, though she already knew.He nodded. “Scouts report their banners on the horizon. The eastern plain is black with them. By nightfall, they will surround us.”The silence that followed pressed in like a weight. They had waited for this moment for weeks, perhaps months. Fear had long hovered on the city’s edge, but fear at a distance was still only shadow. Now it

The dawn broke with a scream of iron.From the enemy lines, the first catapult hurled its burden through the gray sky. A massive stone, blackened with pitch, arced high above the plain and came crashing down upon the northern wall. The impact shook the city like thunder. Masonry cracked, dust billowed, and men staggered as cries of fear rang out.Clara was already on the battlements, her cloak whipping in the wind. She gripped the stone parapet until her knuckles whitened. The air filled with the groan of straining timber and the heavy, rhythmic crash of more stones flung against the walls.Jonathan barked orders to the soldiers around him. “Shields up! Hold steady! Watch the gaps!” His voice was iron, ringing against the chaos, pulling the men back into order.Below, people spilled into the streets—some rushing to shelters, others frozen in terror. The first true assault had begun.---Another stone struck, this time bursting through the upper edge of the gate tower. Debris rained do

The city’s walls loomed like tired sentinels, their stones cracked from years of siege and neglect. At dawn, the fog clung to the battlements, shrouding them in a ghostly veil that made the guards shiver as though the mist itself carried omens. The night had been restless. Voices whispered in alleys, and flames had flickered from torchlight gatherings where the scribe’s disciples stirred the people with secret words.Clara rose before the sun, unable to sleep. The silence of her chamber pressed against her ears, filled with echoes of doubt she tried to silence but could not. Michael’s absence gnawed at her heart, but she forced herself to rise, to dress plainly, to walk the halls with the bearing of someone unbreakable—even though inside she felt like glass cracking under unseen pressure.When she reached the outer yard of the council hall, Jonathan was already there, pacing like a wolf trapped in a cage. His cloak was dusty, his sword at his hip. He had not slept either.“You feel it

The fountain’s torches swayed in the morning wind, their flames bending eastward as though listening. All around, the crowd thickened, pressing shoulder to shoulder, eyes sharp with hunger, fear, and expectation. The square felt like a battlefield without blades—where words would wound deeper than steel.Clara stood upon the stone rim of the fountain, her palms damp, though her gaze did not falter. Across from her, the scribe raised his hand in a mockery of peace, his smile smooth and deliberate.“People of this city,” he began, his voice rolling like oil over stone. “I have walked your streets. I have broken bread at your tables. I have heard your cries in the night. And I ask you—what has the council given you? Walls, yes, to keep you trapped. Rations, yes, to keep you starving. And speeches—empty speeches—to keep you waiting for a man who may already lie in the dust beyond our gates.”A murmur surged through the crowd, sharp as the creak of a thousand bows being drawn.The scribe l

The council hall smelled of damp stone and weary men. Rain tapped against the high windows as if impatient for an answer, as though even the sky demanded judgment.Clara sat at the long oak table, shoulders squared, though her eyes betrayed the weight of sleepless nights. Around her, the council gathered in uneasy silence. Faces once bound by loyalty now flickered with doubt—creased brows, downturned mouths, sidelong glances that carried more suspicion than words.At the head, her father cleared his throat, his voice ragged. “We are pressed on all sides. The walls crumble faster than we can repair them. Stores of grain diminish daily. And now…” He paused, as though reluctant to speak the word. “…now rebellion stirs again, this time not with swords, but with hearts.”A murmur rippled down the table.Jonathan’s fist struck the wood, sharp as a blade’s edge. “It is the scribe’s poison. He spreads fear as though it were wine, and too many drink deeply. We should cut him down before he gro