Smoke and screams rose in waves from the valley floor. Two of the great machines now lay broken — one burning, one shattered — their hulks collapsing into blackened heaps of iron and charred wood. But the third remained.And it moved.The last engine groaned forward with monstrous inevitability, its wheels crushing the dead, its ram swinging like a pendulum of doom. Each swing drew the ridge nearer to ruin. If it struck, the Ashborn’s hold would crumble.Adrian wiped blood from his brow, chest heaving. His armor smoked from wyvern fire, his blade dripped red. Yet his eyes burned with unyielding purpose.“The last one,” he rasped, pointing toward the towering silhouette. “We bring it down — or we die with the ridge.”Selene stood beside him, her shadow-sword hissing faintly as it cooled. The serpent’s scar on her face flared with every beat of her heart, its pull stronger now than ever.Her thoughts snarled like a storm. One thrust, one falter, and he falls. The Master waits. His fate

Night pressed heavy over the ridge. The fires of the fallen engines smoldered in the valley below, their smoke curling like black veins across the moon. The Ashborn camp was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the silence of men too weary to speak, too wounded to cry, too uncertain to sleep.Adrian walked among them, cloak brushing ash, eyes burning with the weight of command. Every step brought whispers — not loud, not brazen, but sharp enough to cut.“…why is she still here?”“…scar burns like the serpent’s eyes.”“…Adrian trusts her too much.”He heard it all, though none dared say it to his face. Their gazes slid away when he passed, some in respect, others in doubt. He carried both like chains.Roderic limped up beside him, a bandage wrapped around his leg, his shield arm stiff from burns. Yet his eyes were clear, his voice steady.“They’re shaken,” the captain said quietly. “Not from the fight. From her.”Adrian didn’t look at him. “She saved the ridge.”Roderic grunted. “Aye. But

Dawn had not yet broken, but Adrian was awake. He always was before the light — sleep came to him in fragments, restless and thin. Tonight, it had not come at all.He walked the edge of the camp, cloak pulled against the cold, listening to the low stir of soldiers dreaming. Some muttered names of the dead; others clutched their blades even in slumber. The whole army felt brittle, like glass waiting to shatter.Then he heard it.A sharp cry. Muffled. From Selene’s tent.Adrian’s hand moved instinctively to his sword. He crossed the distance in three silent strides, every muscle tense. He pushed aside the flap — and froze.Selene was there, kneeling, drenched in sweat. Her scar glowed faintly, angry red in the half-dark. Her sword lay across her knees, trembling with the echo of some unseen battle.Her eyes shot up to meet his, wide and raw, as though she had been caught not in shame but in a kind of nakedness.“Adrian…” Her voice broke on his name.He stepped inside, closing the flap

The council fire had burned low, its ashes scattering into the cold wind. Soldiers were already busy with preparations, sharpening blades, binding armor, muttering prayers half-remembered. The camp was alive, but the air pulsed with unease — as though a storm crouched just over the horizon.And every pair of eyes Selene passed carried that unease.She walked among them silently, her hood drawn low, cloak heavy around her shoulders. Yet even shrouded, she felt their gazes: sharp, suspicious, laced with something worse than hatred. Fear.Men turned away when she drew near. Some made signs against evil under their breath. One spat openly into the dirt as she passed.“Serpent’s bride,” a voice whispered behind her.“Don’t let her touch the rations,” another muttered.Her hand tightened on the hilt at her side, knuckles white. She could have cut them down — easily, swiftly, as she had once been taught.But that was the Master’s way, and she had sworn she would not be his weapon again.So

The ridge breathed fire. The serpent’s host poured down its slopes, shields locked, spears bristling like the fangs of some vast beast. Drums thundered through the valley, shaking the marrow of every man who heard them. Adrian sat his horse at the front line, still as stone. The reins pulled against his gloves, but his mount felt his calm, trembling less than the men behind. He had learned long ago that a commander’s silence could steady an army more than any speech. And yet his silence was not peace. His chest carried the weight of every life strung upon this moment — Kael at his right, eager and grim; Roderic at his left, cold and unflinching; the rows of soldiers stretching behind like a taut bowstring. And somewhere in that line, Selene. He did not look for her. To look would be to admit weakness, to give shape to the storm twisting in his chest. The serpent’s drums quickened. Horns blared, shrill as knives. Adrian raised his sword. The steel caught the gray ligh