The stone wall loomed like a fractured crescent, jagged teeth of earth driven upward by Alarik's power. Behind it, the royal chariot crouched in the flicker of torches and firelight, its lacquered sides marred with blood spatters and soot. The air was thick with iron and smoke, cloying mud churned by trampling boots and spilled innards. Every heartbeat carried with it the clash of steel, the guttural roars of dying men, and the thunder of bodies striking stone.
Soldiers held the open arc of the wall, their shields locked in a trembling line. Spears jutted outward in desperate hedge, but the formation wavered with each assault. Every few breaths, a man went down—crushed, pierced, or screaming as he was dragged off into the press. Another took his place, eyes wide with dread but feet planted firm. They knew this wasn't survival. This was a barricade of flesh, buying moments with blood so the chariot behind them might stand a little longer.
Within that fragile ring, chaos gnawed at order. Men stumbled back from the front, torn and broken, collapsing in heaps near the wheels of the carriage. Some clutched at stumps where limbs had been, others gurgled through holes in their throats. Lira moved among them, her robes clotted with dirt and blood, her hands blazing faint gold. The light knitted flesh, sealed arteries, and dragged screams from the dying as life was shoved back into their bodies. She whispered encouragements through clenched teeth, though her eyes betrayed the truth—she was drowning. For every soldier she dragged back from death's edge, two more crumpled in the mud, never to rise again.
And above this chaos, watching from the narrow slit of a window, Princess Alisanne held herself stiff. Her raven hair clung damp to her cheeks, her nails dug into the wood of the sill. She had tried to keep her head high when the attack began, her gaze calm so her men might see strength in her. But that mask was cracking. She saw a soldier dragged past with half his face torn away, his screams bubbling with blood, and the sound tore through her like a blade. Her chest lurched. Her breath caught. She turned away, unable to watch more, shame burning as hot as the tears she refused to shed.
The strong front she had clung to wavered. For a moment, she was just a girl surrounded by slaughter.
Then the air shifted inside the carriage.
A ripple disturbed the stillness, like light bending in water. The shimmer pulled together into a silhouette, and in a blink, a figure stood there—solid where before there had been nothing.
"I'm back, princess," came the calm voice.
Alisanne spun, heart thundering. Relief struck her like sunlight through stormclouds. It was Meira—her maid, her blade, her only constant. Gone was her servant's attire. She wore close-fitted dark leathers now, streaked with grime, daggers slick with fresh blood. Her breath was steady, her eyes cold and sharp. To Alisanne, she was a lifeline.
"Meira…" The princess's voice trembled. She straightened her back, forcing her fear down. "Tell me. What's happening out there?"
Meira's gaze swept toward the window, where steel flashed and men screamed. She answered without hesitation, voice even but edged with grim weight.
"My lady, this isn't the work of common brigands. They fight like soldiers. The strongest pin down our elites, the middle ranks swarm in packs, and archers pepper us from the treeline. Every piece moves with purpose." She cleaned her blades on a strip of cloth, movements neat and efficient. "They came to kill you."
Alisanne's breath faltered. She had feared it, but to hear it spoken out loud shattered the thin thread of hope she had clung to. Her gaze fell, her words barely more than a whisper. "So… no chance of breaking through?"
Meira was silent for a heartbeat, then spoke with brutal honesty. "Alarik is bound by their leader. He cannot tip the scales. Our soldiers are being bled out, one line at a time. The enemy is too disciplined. We don't have the firepower to shatter them. If this continues…" She let the rest hang unsaid.
Alisanne felt despair coil tight around her chest. Her hands trembled in her lap until her nails bit her palms. For an instant, her mind reached for impossible plans—sending Meira to aid Alarik, ordering a breakout—but she knew. If this attack was staged for her, then every move had been anticipated. Another assassin waited for Meira. Another trap waited for any flight.
Her lips pressed thin. The words that spilled tasted of ash. "They're no bandits at all. This is a gift from one of my brothers."
Meira's eyes flicked toward her but remained unreadable.
Alisanne forced herself to continue, though her voice grew heavier with each word. "They want me erased before the board is even set. Father's attention these past months, my awakening ceremony drawing near… they saw it. They feared it. So they move now, to cut me from the root before I can grow."
Her chest tightened. She had known this truth in theory all her life: succession meant blood. Brothers turning blades on one another. Sisters silenced before they could stand. But knowing it was different from hearing her men die for it. Different from feeling her own life slip closer to the butcher's block with every scream beyond the wall.
Her vision blurred. She pressed her hand against her lips, swallowing back the tremor. She could not break. Not here. Not before Meira.
Her guard stepped closer, her voice steady, calm, as though she could smother the storm with will alone. "We may be cornered, but not finished. If you give the word, I'll cut a path. I'll carry you from this place."
Alisanne's eyes widened. She wanted to accept. She wanted to believe escape was possible. But she knew what that meant—abandoning the soldiers, leaving them to die while she fled. Her throat closed. She shook her head faintly, unable to give voice to the refusal.
Silence clung heavy in the carriage. Fragile. Suffocating.
Outside, the fight turned to butchery. The stone wall cracked under another crushing blow, fissures splitting as dirt rained down. A guard staggered, thrown off balance, his shield snapping in two. An enemy blade gutted him in a spray of blood, spilling his entrails into the mud. Through the gap surged a killer, eyes wild—only to be dragged down in an instant, stabbed and hacked by desperate hands until his twitching corpse joined the red muck beneath their boots.
Then—everything shifted.
It came like a breath caught in the throat of the world. The air pressed heavy, thick, and wrong. The clash of weapons dulled. Screams echoed strange, drawn out, as though swallowed by something vast. The ground itself seemed to hum, a vibration deep in the bones.
Alisanne froze, her skin prickling, a shiver crawling up her spine. Meira's head snapped toward the battlefield, daggers already drawn, her gaze sharp and wary.
The princess felt it too—the change, oppressive and immense, an aura that pressed on the soul. Not the presence of men, nor of beasts. Something greater. Something summoned.
Meira's whisper cut the silence like glass.
"…What is that?"
And from beyond the wall, where the boy called Reivo bled into the dirt, the answer began to rise.