"Hold," he called, and like shutters slamming in high wind, the violence stopped.
No time for celebration. Varzadian banners were hauled from storage and raised anew atop the gatehouses. Belle inspected placements, ensuring angles looked natural to distant spyglasses. She added a faint shimmer over the ramparts—illusory torches, silhouettes pacing. From beyond, it would appear business as usual.
Alicia, pale and trembling, used her mind to lift debris, stacking broken crates into makeshift embrasures. She nudged a loose stone here, a toppled ladder there, every inch selling the story that defenders still worked.
Josephine's riders took to the roads. They galloped past crossroads, pausing just long enough for pickets to glimpse Varzadian cloaks before charging onward, hooves hammering fear into any witness.
Inside, Wilhelmina reorganized squads, rotated watch shifts, and posted double sentries at every postern gate. Anyone approaching would see a fortress bristling with readiness.
