The sun rose blood-red behind the hills.
Auren Varik stood on the edge of the siege line, watching the city of Elthemar from behind a row of sharpened stakes and mud-slick trenches. The day had come. The deadline was over.
There had been no surrender.
Volgrin's camp was silent, save for the slow creak of siege towers shifting into position.
A cold wind stirred the crimson banners. Smoke rose from fire pits. And in the distance, the gates of Elthemar remained closed — defiant, quiet, and waiting.
Captain Rhoen stepped beside Auren, his expression unreadable.
"You were hoping they'd surrender," he said flatly.
"I was hoping someone would blink before we set the world on fire."
Rhoen exhaled through his nose. "They chose this."
"No," Auren said. "They just refused to lose."
Inside Elthemar, Governor Larian Avel stood atop the north tower, wrapped in a thick coat of fur and wool, watching the siege towers crawl across the hills like iron insects. Mira Tenvale stood at his side, hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial blade she'd only ever used once — during riots in the lower quarter five years ago.
"They're starting the breach," she said softly.
"I gave them the chance," Larian whispered. "Three days. They warned us about the tunnels. They didn't want this."
"Then why build towers?"
"Because mercy has limits. Even in war."
Mira was quiet. Then she said, "The tunnels are holding. The supply line is intact."
"For how long?" Larian asked.
"We dig faster than they burn."
"Not forever."
The first stone crashed into Elthemar's west wall just before midday.
A shudder ran through the ground as Volgrin's catapults, newly positioned overnight, began their methodical pounding. Dust sprayed from the ancient stone. Rubble tumbled into the alley below.
Volgrin archers loosed a volley. Elthemar answered.
The war had gone quiet for three days.
Now it howled.
Auren led his detachment in the second wave — scaling up the base of Siege Tower 3, which was now lurching its way across the muddy approach. Beside him, Tessan gripped his shield tight, mouth dry, face pale.
"You ready?" Auren asked.
"No."
"Good. That means you're not stupid."
As they ascended, Auren looked back once — toward the ridge where a line of black smoke curled up from the forge tents. A small signal — unnoticed by most.
But not by Auren.
He'd left instructions with a smith that morning: burn a particular kind of resin during the assault. If the smoke turned black, the tunnels had been found. If gray, they hadn't.
It was black.
The Volgrin scouts had located one of the tunnel mouths near the orchard ruins.
The final route of escape — or hope — was now compromised.
Auren swallowed hard and turned forward. War didn't wait for grief.
Inside Elthemar's lower ward, Veren — the captured Dareth courier, now freed by an anonymous bribe — ducked through shadowed alleys with a message in hand. He'd slipped out of the Volgrin camp the night before, hidden under a wagon of spoiled food, after someone left his bindings cut and a cloak by the tent entrance.
Now, bruised and frostbitten, he reached the central command post.
"The tunnels," he gasped. "They've found them."
Larian looked up from a cracked table. "Where?"
"West orchard. Near the stone well."
Mira swore.
"How do you know this?" Larian demanded.
Veren looked down. "Someone let me go."
Back at the siege line, Auren and his men reached the wall — only to find that Elthemar had built a false gate behind the tower's expected breach point. As they poured into the breach, Volgrin troops found themselves funneled into a narrow street flanked by hidden archers.
Screams broke out.
Tessan ducked as a bolt nearly split his helm. "It's a trap!"
"No," Auren growled, dragging him into cover. "It's a defense."
"Same thing!"
Volgrin troops began to fall back, dragging the wounded. Smoke filled the air, and burning oil poured from hidden slits along the walls. The city had prepared for this.
But one soldier, Lieutenant Krain, broke formation.
"I see the gate!" he shouted. "With me!"
He charged into the chaos — and two followed him. One fell instantly. The other got past.
Auren didn't move.
"Should we help him?" Tessan asked.
"No," Auren said. "He's already dead."
At dusk, the Volgrin army pulled back from the breach.
Dead and wounded lay in rows outside the medic tents. Auren sat beside Tessan, both bloodied and silent. The boy's hands shook, but his eyes burned with something new.
"They tricked us," Tessan muttered.
"They defended themselves," Auren replied.
"You're not angry?"
"I'm tired."
Captain Rhoen appeared, boots soaked in ash. "We take the eastern wall next. The tunnels are being collapsed now. They won't hold much longer."
Auren stood slowly. "What if they're collapsing on civilians?"
"They are," Rhoen said. "They made that choice when they used them."
"No," Auren said. "We did."
There was a pause.
Then Rhoen said, "This war's going to bury both sides. You just better hope we're the ones standing when it does."
Elsewhere, in the lower district of Elthemar, a young baker's apprentice named Cerran handed a soldier a sack of barley bread. He didn't know the flour had molded — the cold kept the smell down. He'd meant well. He thought the soldier was hungry.
The soldier died of infection two days later.
The bread had passed through five hands before reaching him.
None knew who baked it.
But Cerran would.
And the city would never be the same after that.