All Chapters of WAR GOD'S CRIMSON AWAKENING : Chapter 31
- Chapter 40
61 chapters
Siege Lines
The manor didn’t fall clean or quick, the way I’d pictured in those late night stares at the ceiling, imagining one big push and the whole thing crumbling like dry ash; instead it turned into a slow grind, days bleeding into nights where we’d breach a section, take a core or a ward room, then pull back when alliance reinforcements poured in from airships that still answered Voss calls, and the mountain air tasted constant of smoke and ozone and the copper tang of blood that never quite washed off. We set up siege lines in the midlevel platforms tents and barricades scavenged from academy stores, Valeria turning a blind eye that wasn’t blind at all, and every morning I’d wake to the low rumble of Rag snoring and Mira curled small against Liora’s side because the kid had started wandering in her sleep toward whoever felt safest that night. Liora and I took the dawn watch most days, standing on the forward ledge with cloaks pulled tight against the wind, watching the manor list a littl
The Cost of Pushing
The next push came on a morning when the sky hung low and gray, clouds pressing down like they wanted to smother the manor themselves, and the wind carried the smell of rain that hadn’t decided to fall yet, sharp and metallic, mixing with the constant smoke rising from damaged wards higher up. We moved at dawn small team again, me, Liora, Seraphine, Kora for wind cover. Rag staying back this time to guard the lines with Jax because his ribs were still knitting slow from the last hit and Mira had made him promise not to “break more.” He’d grumbled but stayed. I missed his bulk beside me. The breach was an old servant lift Seraphine knew, rusted chains creaking as we climbed hand over hand, boots scraping walls slick with condensation, hearts thudding loud in the quiet. We came out in the mid-level kitchens once grand, now abandoned, pots overturned, food spoiled weeks ago, the air thick with rot and old spices. No guards at first. Just echoes. Seraphine led, flame low in her pa
Mira’s Eyes
I don’t like the way the big house looks when it’s falling. It used to be pretty from far away like a golden cloud that sometimes caught the sun and made everything below shine. But now it leans funny, lights going out one by one like someone’s blowing out candles too fast, and the smoke coming off it smells bad, like burned food and something sharp I can’t name. Eli says it’s okay. He always says it’s okay even when his side is wrapped in cloth that used to be white but now has red spots that keep growing. He smiles when he says it, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes the way it used to when we were just cleaning trays in the lower city. I sit next to him on the mats while Liora changes the bandage again. Her hands shake a little, even though she tries to hide it. I see it because I’m small and people forget I’m watching. “Does it hurt bad?” I ask, voice small so it doesn’t make the grown-ups jump. Eli looks at me. His gray eyes are tired, but they’re still his. “Not as bad as
The Quiet Before
The cavern felt smaller after the wound, the walls pressing in like they were listening, the low fire throwing shadows that danced too close to the mats where I lay, chest rising and falling slow while the poultice dried stiff against my ribs and the smell of crushed herbs clung to everything, sharp and green, the way things smell when they’re trying to fix what’s broken. I didn’t sleep much. Kept waking to the same dream: falling again, airship hatch open, Harlan’s face above me, smiling like he’d won something permanent. I’d jerk awake, hand reaching for Reaper that wasn’t there, heart slamming against the bandage until I remembered where I was. Liora was always there when I opened my eyes. She didn’t sleep either, not really just sat with her back against the crate, knees drawn up, sword across her lap like it was the only thing keeping the dark from getting too close. Her braid had come loose days ago, strands sticking to her neck from sweat, and every time I shifted she’d lea
The Long Night
The manor kept sagging lower every night, like it was tired of holding itself up and just wanted to rest against the mountain, the golden lights dimming one by one until only a few stubborn windows glowed high up, small and lonely against the black sky, and the wind carried down the smell of cooling metal and something sharper, like ozone after lightning or the way a forge smells when the fire’s dying and you’re left with hot iron and regret. We didn’t rush the next push. Couldn’t. My side still pulled every time I breathed too deep, the stitches tugging like they were reminding me I wasn’t whole yet, and Liora watched me closer than anyone, her eyes tracking every wince, every slow step, like she was counting the cost of every breath I took. She didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it in the way she stayed near, hand brushing my arm when we walked the lines, shoulder pressed to mine when we sat around the small fire, the warmth of her cutting through the cold better than any blanke
The Weight of Waiting
The manor kept dropping, slow and stubborn, like it knew we were watching and wanted to make us suffer for every inch, the golden lights flickering out one by one until only the throne hall glowed high up, a single stubborn candle in a house that had already burned itself hollow, and the wind carried down the smell of cooling metal mixed with the faint, sour bite of failing mana cores that made my nose wrinkle every time a gust came through the lines. We waited. Not the kind of waiting that’s quiet and peaceful, but the kind that sits heavy in your chest, makes your fingers itch for Reaper, makes you check the bandage on your side every hour even though the stitches have stopped pulling so hard and the skin underneath is pink and puckered instead of raw. I spent most of the day on the ledge again, cloak pulled tight against the cold, watching the manor sag another fraction, the way a tired man slumps when he’s too stubborn to sit. Liora found me there when the sun dipped low and t
The Slow Grind
The manor kept bleeding light every night, one window after another going dark like someone inside was snuffing candles with wet fingers, the golden glow shrinking until it looked more like a dying ember than the proud house it used to be, and the wind that came down now carried the smell of hot metal cooling too fast, mixed with the faint, sour bite of failing mana that made my nose wrinkle even when I tried to breathe shallow to keep the stitches from pulling. I could walk again, mostly. Not fast. Not straight. But enough to pace the lines when the sun came up thin and gray, enough to stand watch with Liora on the ledge while the rest of the team slept off yesterday’s bruises, her shoulder against mine the only thing keeping the cold from sinking too deep. She didn’t say much those mornings. Just stood close, hand brushing mine when the wind gusted hard, fingers lacing through when no one was looking. I felt it in the way she leaned into me slow, deliberate, like she was testin
The Next Inch
The manor sagged another handspan overnight, the kind of shift you feel more than see, a low groan rolling through the stone beneath our feet like the mountain itself was tired of holding it up, and when I woke the air tasted different thicker, metallic, the faint sour bite of dying mana drifting down on the wind that scraped across the ledge where I stood alone, cloak pulled tight, watching the last stubborn lights flicker high above like they still thought they could pretend everything was fine. My side ached less today. Not gone just quieter, the stitches pulling only when I twisted too fast or reached for Reaper without thinking, a reminder that healing isn’t the same as forgetting. I kept moving anyway. Kept checking the lines. Kept breathing. Liora found me before the sun rose properly, steps soft on the stone, the faint rustle of her cloak the only warning before her shoulder pressed against mine, warm and steady in the gray light. She didn’t speak at first. Just stood
The Next Inch
The manor kept bleeding light every night, one window after another going dark like someone inside was snuffing candles with wet fingers, the golden glow shrinking until it looked more like a dying ember than the proud house it used to be, and the wind that came down now carried the smell of hot metal cooling too fast, mixed with the faint, sour bite of failing mana that made my nose wrinkle even when I tried to breathe shallow to keep the stitches from pulling.I could walk again, mostly.Not fast. Not straight. But enough to pace the lines when the sun came up thin and gray, enough to stand watch with Liora on the ledge while the rest of the team slept off yesterday’s bruises, her shoulder against mine the only thing keeping the cold from sinking too deep.She didn’t say much those mornings.Just stood close, hand brushing mine when the wind gusted hard, fingers lacing through when no one was looking.I felt it in the way she leaned into me slow, deliberate, like she was testing if
The Eastern Push
The eastern core run started before the sky even thought about lightening, the air still thick with night cold and the sharp bite of frost that settled on metal and skin alike, making my breath fog in short bursts while I strapped Reaper tighter across my back, the leather creaking soft against the silence, and the wound in my side gave one dull tug when I twisted, reminding me it was still there, still healing, still angry if I asked too much of it. Liora walked beside me down the line, cloak pulled close, braid tucked under her hood, the only sound her boots matching mine on the stone step for step, steady, like she was measuring every inch so she could find me again if the dark swallowed one of us. She didn’t talk. Neither did I. Words felt too heavy for pre-dawn. Rag fell in behind, his bulk a quiet promise, the faint scrape of his claws on rock the only warning he gave before he was there, golden eyes catching the torchlight like coins in a well. Seraphine led flame low in