The days bled into one another, each dawn bringing tighter belts and thinner faces. The siege pressed upon the city like a slow, choking hand. Though no arrow had yet been loosed against the walls, the enemy’s grip starved as surely as sword or flame.In the marketplace, stalls stood half-empty. Where once hung strings of onions and baskets of grain, now only shriveled roots and a few bruised apples lay scattered. The bakers rationed their bread with iron measure, and those who could not pay the rising prices went without. Mothers watered thin broth to stretch for children, while men grumbled in the corners of taverns, their mugs filled with nothing stronger than diluted ale.Clara moved among them, her presence a balm to some, an irritant to others. She carried baskets of bread from Jonathan’s stores, distributing what little could be spared. Each hand that reached for food seemed both grateful and accusing.“Bless you, lady,” a frail old man whispered as she pressed a crust into his

The night lay heavy with silence, broken only by the faint crackle of raider fires dotting the southern ridge. To the untrained eye, the enemy seemed secure—wagons parked in neat rows, sentries posted along the slopes. But to Michael, crouched in the shadows of a thicket, their weakness was laid bare.They had grown complacent. The siege had dragged for days, and with each passing night, their vigilance dulled. Some guards leaned on their spears, half-asleep. Others warmed themselves by the fire, more interested in dice than duty. Their commanders trusted that hunger within the city would fight harder than any sword from without.Michael’s lips curved into a grim smile. “You think the city weakens,” he whispered to himself, “but it is you who will starve first.”He tightened the straps on his pack, checked the flint and oil-soaked cloth tucked within, and pulled his hood low. Tonight would not be a skirmish in the shadows. Tonight would be fire.---He crept closer, moving with the si

The night was restless in the raider encampment. Smoke still lingered in the air from the flames Michael had unleashed upon their supplies, and the mood was as volatile as the embers glowing in scattered pits. Men muttered curses, sharpened their blades with violent strokes, and drank heavily to stifle their unease. The ground, once a place of arrogant laughter and confident boasts, now trembled with suspicion.In the largest tent, lit by oil lamps that swayed with the night wind, the raider chieftains gathered around a battered wooden table. Maps lay sprawled before them, some marked with hastily drawn lines to account for their losses.“Our stores are crippled,” snarled Commander Varek, a man with a scar running down his jaw like a jagged river. He slammed his fist onto the table. “If this phantom strikes again, we’ll be gnawing on horse leather before the month ends.”Across from him, a tall woman with eyes like flint leaned forward. “Do not speak of him like a spirit. He is flesh

The night sky was alive with fire. From the walls of the city, the defenders watched in awe as the raider encampment burned. Siege towers toppled like giants struck by lightning, their flames licking the heavens, their groans of collapse echoing across the battlefield. The people, who only hours before had trembled at the raiders’ advance, now felt a surge of courage course through their veins.Jonathan stood upon the battlements, sword in hand, his eyes fixed on the chaos below. His cloak billowed in the hot wind of fire and arrows, and though his body bore bruises and cuts from the day’s fighting, his spirit stood tall. He knew exactly what this meant. Michael had struck again.“The towers are burning!” shouted one of the captains, disbelief mingling with relief.Jonathan’s voice boomed above the clamor, steady as a war drum. “Then let us strike while their eyes are blinded by flame! Archers—loose! Burn their ladders before they touch our stone!”Arrows, tipped with fire, streaked a

The forest whispered as dusk thickened, its branches swaying like watchers awaiting a performance. Among the trees, Michael crouched with his small band, eyes fixed on the trail ahead. The convoy moved with deliberate slowness: three wagons laden with grain, their wheels creaking, flanked by drivers who looked ragged and weary. To any other hunter, it was the perfect strike—supplies too tempting to ignore. But to Michael, the scene reeked of artifice.“Too neat,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.The hunter beside him adjusted his bow. “Wagons on open road, guards disguised as beggars. They want us to believe fortune favors us tonight.”Michael’s lips curved into a grim smile. “Fortune rarely favors the foolish. This is bait. And they think we’re hungry enough to bite.”He motioned for silence, then studied the tree line opposite. Shadows shifted there—subtle, trained movements. Warriors lying in wait. The warlord had poured cunning into this trap, but he had underestimated one thing: