From the high ridge overlooking the ravine, two enemy scouts crouched low in the undergrowth. The mist had begun to thin with the rising sun, revealing the chaotic clash below: the caravan locked in desperate struggle, Jonathan’s men holding fast against the storm.One scout, a lean man with a scar cutting across his cheek, spat into the dirt. “It reeks of a trap,” he muttered. His sharp eyes swept the makeshift barricades, the soldiers bracing behind them, the deliberate way the wagons had stopped in formation. “Merchants don’t fight like wolves cornered. Look at them — they were waiting for us.”His companion, a broader man with a crooked nose, grunted, watching with arms folded. “Trap or not, they bleed all the same. Our raiding parties have been starved of a real prize for weeks. A caravan this fat on supplies…” His eyes gleamed hungrily. “Even if half of it is a trick, the other half is worth the risk.”Below, the fighting intensified. A second line of enemy footmen surged into t

The battle at the ravine might have ended in victory, but its echoes carried swiftly back to the city. Messengers returned with dust on their cloaks and blood still staining their hands, recounting tales of carnage, of Jonathan’s trap sprung, and of the ravine choked with enemy dead. The victory should have been enough to lift the city’s spirits — yet it was not.Instead, in the crowded marketplaces and winding alleys, whispers grew like weeds.“Did you hear? Clara’s husband — Michael — nowhere to be seen.”“A son-in-law who hides while others bleed? Shameful.”“They say he ran before the enemy even came close.”“Or perhaps he sits in comfort while his wife works among the women.”The words spread faster than fire across dry straw. They were not spoken loudly, not yet, but in corners, behind hands, in the pauses between trade. By dusk, nearly every household had heard some version of the tale: Michael, the useless son-in-law, absent even in the hour of greatest need.---Clara felt it

The city had scarcely recovered from the battle at the ravine when new burdens pressed upon its people. Supplies, once thought to last the month, dwindled faster than expected. Grain bins stood half-empty, and the granary echoed with the hollow sound of scarcity. The women, who bore the weight of rationing, felt the strain most sharply, and at their head stood Clara.Morning after morning, she rose before the first bell and walked the narrow streets with baskets balanced on her arms. Beside her trailed a group of women—widows, wives, sisters—each carrying their share of the work. Together they entered the storerooms, counted grain by candlelight, sewed sacks, patched garments, and stitched wounds still raw from the ravine.Clara gave them direction, but more than that, she gave them courage. Her calm voice stilled disputes, her hands worked alongside theirs, and when their hearts faltered, her eyes—steady, unwavering—lifted them. Yet behind that strength lay weariness, a bone-deep exh

The fires still smoldered on the horizon when Jonathan left the battlements and descended into the city streets. The smell of smoke clung to the air, mixed with the tang of fear. Families clustered near the gates, whispering of raids and losses, their voices trembling. Jonathan passed among them with a steady step, but his mind worked furiously, every thought a thread weaving into a greater web.He had always been watchful—ever since the days when men mocked him as “the farmer’s boy who would never command.” But hardship had honed him. He had learned that strength lay not only in the swing of a sword, but in the eyes and ears scattered quietly where no one thought to look. Over time, he had gathered them: a weaver who sold his cloth in the council market, a stable hand whose ears caught gossip between soldiers, a widow whose quiet presence in the baker’s shop was overlooked but never idle. They were not soldiers, but they were loyal. And loyalty, Jonathan knew, was the foundation of v

The city awoke to the sound of distant horns. Not the horns of their own watchmen, but deep, guttural blasts echoing from the hills beyond. From the walls, sentries leaned forward, straining their eyes against the dawn mist.The enemy’s camp stirred restlessly, smoke curling above their fires. Yet no army marched, no banners moved. It was as though the horns had been sounded not for war, but for warning.Jonathan, summoned from his rest, stood upon the northern battlements. His sharp eyes studied the enemy lines. Something was wrong.“They’re unsettled,” murmured Captain Elias beside him. “Their riders pace like hounds with no scent.”Jonathan nodded slowly. “Something has struck them. Something from within.”---By midday, news trickled into the city. Refugees who had fled villages near the raider’s stronghold arrived at the gates with wild stories. Wagons of food and weapons had been burned under the cover of night. A bridge across the ravine—the raiders’ lifeline to their allies—ha