The morning after the attack smelled of blood, ash, and the bitter tang of victory, if such a word could still mean anything
If such a word could still mean anything.
Crows circled overhead as villagers moved slowly among the wreckage, some in silence, some weeping, others simply staring at nothing.
The wall still stood, but in parts it leaned like a drunk, scorched and broken in others. The western breach was sealed with fallen carts and smashed furniture, and fresh timber was already being hauled.
Garren limped past Ethan, shirt torn and arms coated in soot.
"No sleep for the wall" He grunted.
There were thirty-seven dead. They included Ana, who had sung at every harvest festival, and Tomas the carpenter, who was discovered still holding his hammer.
Another twenty were injured.
The remaining arrows of half the archers had been burned. The pots of flame were almost empty. The chaos had trampled the food stores.
However, they had held. With her arms encircling a child who had lost both parents, Lina sat at the well's edge. She whispered lullabies as if nothing had changed, despite having tangled hair and red eyes.
Ethan's jaw clenched as he gazed out at the destroyed southern field. He turned to Old Maeve, a scribe and record-keeper in the town.
"Can we send for help?" He asked.
Maeve raised an eyebrow. "From where?"
They gathered that night in the town hall, what remained of it.
Ethan stood before the room, smoke from torches curling behind him.
"We can't survive another night like that," he said plainly. "And that wasn't the worst of it. Something else is driving them. Something darker."
Garren crossed his arms. You want to ride for the Capital?" Garren scoffed, voice edged like flint.
Ethan shook his head. "I want to know who still holds power. And who would care if we burned."
Maeve cleared her throat, stepping forward with brittle grace.
"This town lies in the Fractured Ring, what was once the southern baronial stretch. Since the baron's death and the plague that followed, the High Council in the Capital ceased collecting tithes from us, and in return, offered no protection."
"They abandoned us," Garren spat.
"Not quite," Maeve said. "They forgot us. We were never a true province, only a border holding."
Ethan paced. "What about the other barons?"
Maeve sighed. "Most are dead. Some retreated north to the Inner Holds, barricaded behind mountains and wealth. Others turned on each other, wars over farmland, grain, pride. You'd be asking wolves to help a wounded herd."
Lina stood, voice quiet but clear. "There's one who might still listen."
They turned to her.
"The Baroness of Riverhelm. She was kin to the fallen baron, distant, but not disloyal. Her lands are half a week's ride from here. If anyone remembers our name, it's her."
Ethan looked around the hall, at the bruised faces, the bandaged limbs, the eyes that waited for direction.
"If we stay like this, we die," he said. "If we ride alone, we may never return. But if we send word, maybe, just maybe, someone will remember we still matter."
He turned to Garren. "Can you spare two riders?"
Garren nodded. "I'll go myself, if you want it."
Ethan smiled grimly. "I need your hammer here."
Maeve offered parchment. "I'll pen the letter. One that reminds her who we were, and what we're still trying to be."
That night, two riders left under a pale moon, carrying the town's last seal and a simple message:
"We still stand. But not for long. Help us, or mourn us."
Ethan watched them vanish into the night, a prayer caught behind his teeth. He had no gods left, only hope.
And back behind the crumbling walls, the town of dust and wood began, once more, to rebuild.