The torches blazed along the western gate, their light fighting against the vast sea of shadows pressing from beyond the walls. The fires on the hills had spread, painting the horizon a sickly orange, as though the very heavens bled. Yet for all the flames, the air was heavy with silence. The enemy host lingered just out of bowshot, patient and watching.And then—movement.The iron groan of the gate’s outer bridge lowered, its chains rattling in the dark. The guards tensed along the battlements, arrows notched, hands trembling. From the firelit fog, a single figure emerged, walking with deliberate steps across the open ground. A white truce flag swayed in one gauntleted hand.Clara stood on the wall above, breath caught in her chest. The figure’s armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight—dented, scarred, yet unmistakable. Michael’s armor.Her knees weakened. She gripped the stone battlement, the chill seeping into her fingers.“Michael…” she whispered.Jonathan stood rigid beside her, e

The roar of the defenders still echoed when the first of the shadow-creatures struck the wall.They moved like liquid night, their limbs twisting unnaturally, claws cutting into stone as though it were clay. Arrows pierced them, but instead of blood, smoke hissed from their wounds. Still they climbed, shrieking with voices that scraped against the soul more than the ear.Clara’s heart thundered as one surged over the parapet. A young soldier froze, his spear slipping from his hands. The shadow lunged—only to be met by Clara herself. She snatched the spear, drove it forward with all her strength. The creature shrieked, dissolving into ash, but its stench lingered, foul and heavy.Her breath came ragged, but her eyes blazed. “They can be killed!” she shouted. “Stand fast!”Jonathan appeared at her side, his sword already blackened with shadow-blood. “You take command of the wall. I’ll hold the gate.” Without waiting, he vaulted down the stair, plunging into the thick of the fight.The s

The city had weathered the storm of whispers, but peace remained brittle, fragile as glass under a hammer. Clara stood on the highest balcony of the council hall, her eyes sweeping the horizon where the walls of the city met the forest beyond. The morning sky glowed with a thin, watery sun, but her heart could not find warmth in it. For she knew—peace in a time like this was never more than an illusion. Beneath her, the square pulsed with life again. Merchants had reopened their stalls, children darted through the crowd, and women bartered over baskets of grain. Yet beneath the chatter, Clara sensed it—that quiet hum of unease, the restlessness that hung over every soul. The rebellion had left wounds, wounds not easily mended. And the scribe, though momentarily silent, had not vanished. He was too clever for that. Too patient. Jonathan appeared beside her, his stride purposeful, his eyes sharp as flint. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword—a habit he had not abandoned since the

The city awoke not to birdsong, nor to the chatter of markets, but to the toll of bells and the groans of the wounded. Dawn poured pale light over the walls, revealing the scars of battle in merciless clarity. Smoke curled upward in thin, bitter streams. The air reeked of blood, oil, and ash.Clara moved among the wounded, her cloak dragging across the stone stained black with last night’s fight. She had not slept. Her voice was raw from shouting, her body trembling with exhaustion, yet still she bent to bind wounds with her own hands.“Hold the bandage steady,” she murmured to a boy hardly sixteen, his arm wrapped tight where an arrow had pierced it. His lips were pale, eyes wide with the stunned terror of youth. Clara brushed back his sweat-damp hair. “You fought bravely. Rest now—you’ve done more than enough.”The boy nodded weakly, whispering, “Did we win, my lady?”Clara paused, her hand tightening on the bloodied cloth. She forced a smile, though it felt heavy on her face. “We s

The dawn came muted, a pale wash of silver bleeding across the horizon. From the high windows of the council hall, Clara watched the light struggle against the low clouds that clung stubbornly to the city’s edge. It was not the brilliance of a rising sun, but the hesitant glow of a weary day, as though even the heavens had grown cautious in their promises.The city stirred beneath her gaze. Smoke rose from hearths, thin and uncertain, and the cries of merchants were fewer now, stripped of their former cheer. Where once the square had thrummed with life, it now pulsed with suspicion. Every movement, every whisper, seemed a weighing of loyalty — Clara or the scribe, hope or despair.Her fingers curled against the windowsill. The night before still haunted her: the scribe’s voice ringing across the crowd, the shifting eyes of her people, the gnawing fear that her words had not been enough. Truth was a weapon, yes, but even truth could falter when bellies were empty and walls seemed ready