The explosion came without warning, shaking the earth.
Followed by a faint tremor in the stone. Viktor flinched, his shoulder brushing the wall as he steadied himself. Gavril muttered a curse and coughed as dust sifted into his collar and mouth.
The shallow puddles scattered across the floor stirred, their surfaces trembling with slow ripples as the vibration faded through the stone. Above them, Whitehold groaned softly, an old and burdened sound that suggested the city had felt the distant impact even here below.
Kaavi was moving before the echo had finished fading.
He closed his eyes and reached outward, his thoughts slipping free of his body, searching for the familiar presence circling far above the city.
The raven answered at once.
Cold air rushed past dark wings as the bird wheeled over Whitehold, snow lashing against its feathers while smoke drifted up from the streets below.
The southern quarter lay broken beneath it, roofs split open, walls cracked, and men still clinging to defensive lines where streets narrowed, shields locked and feet braced against the press of bodies that had once been citizens and soldiers.
The raven dipped lower, and the aftermath of the first explosion came into view.
The street had been torn apart at its centre, stone shattered outward in jagged rings, nearby walls split and blackened where the blast had scraped along them instead of blooming cleanly.
Puppets lay scattered across the snow in broken pieces...torsos flung into doorways, limbs tangled...and at the heart of it all remained a dark, formless pulp smeared across the stone, blood and bone pressed flat by the force of the explosion.
Yet movement had not stopped.
Further down the street, more puppets were advancing.
One dragged a wooden barrel by a rope looped around its shoulders, iron bands screeching softly as they scraped over stone. Another followed close behind, hands pressed to the barrel's rim, shoving it forward with stiff, mechanical persistence.
A third walked alongside them, striking flint against steel again and again, sparks spilling across damp wood as it tried to coax flame where none would properly take.
The barrel detonated long before it reached somewhere close to Baron's line.
The blast came sudden and uneven, tearing sideways through the street, ripping stone from walls and collapsing part of a nearby facade in a shower of debris.
Several puppets were torn apart instantly, bodies reduced to fragments that rained down across the snow, while others were hurled into the rubble, limbs twisted...
At the centre of the blast, little remained but another crushed stain of flesh.
A moment later, those still intact were rising again.
Burned black and broken, they hauled themselves upright without sound or hesitation, turning back toward the line where the Baron and his remaining forces still fought to hold the street.
Behind them waited more barrels…three, perhaps four…some leaking powder uselessly into the snow, others swollen with damp, their iron bands creaking softly as the puppets dragged them forward.
The raven circled once more, watching as the puppets adjusted without pause, abandoning the failed barrels and hauling another into place, as mindless and coordinated as a single body correcting a misstep.
Kaavi broke the connection and opened his eyes, the distant ruin of Whitehold still echoing through his thoughts.
The tremor came again, closer this time, the stone answering with a dull groan.
Kaavi didn't wait.
"They're using explosive powder."
Asha didn't answer immediately. Her eyes narrowed, calculating.
"Powder?" she asked. "Loose charges, or packed?"
"Barrels," Kaavi said. "Crude ones. Iron-banded. Dragged forward by puppets."
"How many?"
Kaavi exhaled. "Enough that one getting through would break a line."
Asha's jaw tightened. "Then the Baron can't afford even a single mistake."
"No," Kaavi said. "Even if one barrel reaches, the damage won't be measured in bodies alone."
Asha's gaze flicked toward the ceiling, as if she could feel the weight of the city above them.
"Then waiting helps no one," she said. "We move. Now."
Kaavi nodded once, then looked to Joren, Gavril, and Viktor. "Not all of us."
Gavril scowled. "Don't start."
"You're injured," Kaavi said evenly. "Both of you are. And Viktor..." He stopped, choosing his words. "You'll slow us down. All three of you."
"I'm fine," Gavril snapped. "I can still fight."
Before Kaavi could answer, Joren shifted, pain flashing across his face as he straightened.
"He's right," Joren said. "And you know it."
Gavril turned on him. "Don't..."
"I know these tunnels," Joren cut in, calm but firm. "There's a spillway that leads out past the ridge. Frozen lake. No traffic. We can disappear there, rest, and stay out of the fighting."
Silence followed.
Viktor looked between them, tense but quiet.
Gavril clenched his jaw, then slowly exhaled. "Damn it."
He turned to Kaavi. "Don't die," he said roughly. "And don't do anything stupid. Viktor still needs you. So come back…all of you."
Kaavi met his gaze and allowed himself a faint, tired smile.
"I've survived worse than this," he said. "We'll be back."
Joren clasped Kaavi's forearm. "End it."
They didn't linger.
Joren led Gavril and Viktor into the dark arteries beneath Whitehold, footsteps fading toward ice, silence, and cover.
Ahead, the stone shook again.
Asha stepped beside Kaavi, firelight faint along her knuckles.
They turned toward the sound together.