Lucas still sat slumped against the palisade, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as though it alone tethered him to the world. His armor was streaked with blood and gore, his face pale beneath the grime. His eyes were fixed on the spot where a body had been.
Kael stopped a few paces away, watching him. The knight's shoulders were rigid, but there was no strength in them, only the brittle tension of someone who had broken and refused to admit it.
For a moment, Kael considered lowering his voice, speaking to Lucas as one battered soul to another. But pity would not reach him. Lucas wasn't a boy to be soothed. He was a knight. His oath was to serve. That was the only lifeline Kael could offer.
"Sir Lucas," Kael said, letting steel harden his tone.
The knight's head lifted slightly, grey eyes dull, as if even the title no longer fit him.
"On your feet," Kael continued. "The wounded need you. We also need to make preparations for another attack."
For a heartbeat, Lucas didn't move. His fingers tightened around his sword hilt. His lips parted, but no words came.
Kael held his gaze. He felt no strength of his own, not truly, but he forced himself to stand as though he had it, to give the knight something solid to lean on.
"Get up." The words came harsher than he intended, but maybe harsh was what Lucas needed.
Slowly, Lucas pushed himself upright. His movements were stiff, unsteady, but he rose, his hand still clenched white around the hilt. His eyes lingered on Kael, confusion flickering beneath the exhaustion.
Kael gave a sharp nod. "See to them. That's an order."
Lucas straightened, only slightly, but enough. He turned, steps dragging at first, then steadier as he crossed the snow toward the nearest group of wounded.
That had gone better than expected. He watched Lucas bind a guard's wound with steady hands. Kael let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The village stirred like a wounded beast. Men and women moved in strained silence, dragging corpses from the snow, carrying the injured into huts, patching breaks in the palisade with whatever wood they could find. Children gathered arrows, their small hands shaking as they placed them in baskets.
Kael found himself among them before he realized it. He lifted a collapsed section of wall with two villagers, his muscles screaming in protest, and wedged it against the wall. Blood had stiffened on his gloves, cracking each time he flexed his fingers. The work was clumsy, graceless, but it was something — something to keep from staring at the faces in the snow.
"Baron."
He turned to see Lucas approaching, a strip of cloth tied around his arm from the earlier fighting. The knight stood straighter now, though his face bore the same drawn exhaustion as the others.
"The report," Lucas said, voice low but steady. "Six dead. Twelve wounded." His gaze dropped to the ground. "Three of them… badly. If they make it through the night, they'll live — but they won't fight again."
He drew a breath, squared his shoulders as though forcing himself to continue. "We've enough arrows for one more battle, maybe two. The palisade's taken heavy damage. And…" His mouth tightened. "There isn't enough wood for proper repairs. If the beasts come back tonight, we'll be hard pressed."
Lucas's jaw worked as if to say more, then he swallowed it, waiting for an answer.
Kael nodded slowly. The words fell heavy, but they were needed.
His eyes swept over the villagers, the wounded, the broken palisade. He felt the weight of command settle on his shoulders again, heavy as iron. Every number Lucas spoke echoed in his mind: six dead, twelve wounded, and he traced each one back to a face, a name. The thought that he might have saved one if only his oath had grown faster gnawed at him.
Yet there was no time for self-recrimination. These people needed him present, steady. He clenched his fists briefly, forcing the tension from them, and felt a flicker of something like resolve.
Even with exhaustion dragging at his limbs, he noted the small victories: the walls held, the wounded moved, the villagers still breathed. That was something. That had to be something.
Kael let the numbers settle in his mind, the weight of the lost and wounded pressing down. He met Lucas's gaze, firm but calm.
"Understood," he said. "We'll make do with what we have. Prioritize the wounded first, then the walls. Every arrow counts, every plank matters. Every able-bodied body should start working on the palisade, and get the tower's ladder ready by tonight; we need it."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. "The guards need rest; we'll need them sharp. What about the shadowfangs?"
"Thirty-two were killed," Lucas said, his tone steady. "A few managed to escape. Based on the scouts' reports before the attack, there should be at least another thirty or so still out there."
Kael swallowed, his jaw tight. "So we need to expect another attack?"
"Yes, I think so," he said, his expression grim. "Captain Rhys believes the same."
Kael let the numbers settle in his mind, thirty-two shadowfangs gone, yet at least another thirty still prowled the wilderness beyond the treeline. His jaw tightened. The walls were damaged, the arrows scarce. They would need more than courage to survive another attack.
His thoughts spun in every direction, searching for a better strategy to defend the village. Every plan he tried to shape dissolved into nothing. The only certainty he had was that the key to any real advantage lay in unlocking the second sequence of his oath—and even then, he could only hope it would be enough.
He had to do it soon—before the next attack, before it was too late to help. Every second that passed without progress felt like a knife twisting in his chest.
He wanted to ask Lucas about his oath, to see if the knight had a chance of moving to the next sequence, or even his second oath. But he knew it would be inappropriate. One thing he had learned in the Count's mansion was that oaths were deeply personal—sacred in their secrecy. To ask was to pry into a person's very soul, and Kael had no right.
There were countless ways to kill an oathbound. One of the simplest and most insidious ways was to know their oath and manipulate them into breaking it. If done correctly, the power that bound them would turn against them, vanish like smoke, or at least just weaken them. Once stripped of it, they were just like anyone else: vulnerable, mortal, exposed.
But that didn't mean it was easy. It merely meant that if you were clever or lucky enough, you could lower their power.
Every oath is unique, at least that is what Kael was taught. No two bindings were the same, and no two oathbound wielded their power alike. What strengthened one might weaken another. That was why he could never truly gauge Lucas, or anyone else, by their oath—each was a private, fragile thing, as personal as a heartbeat.
Kael straightened, brushing stiff snow and blood from his gloves.
The village stirred around him, each movement a reminder that life persisted even in the shadow of death. He watched a pair of villagers lift a shadowfang, its limbs dangling awkwardly, blood seeping into the snow. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the tasks at hand.
He moved among the villagers, lending hands where he could, adjusting a plank of wall, steadying a ladder, offering terse guidance. His muscles ached, his breath came ragged, but there was a strange solace in motion. Action, even small, tethered him to the present and kept the weight of failure from pulling him under entirely.
Lucas moved among the injured as well, efficient, silent, a steady presence Kael could rely on without admitting it. Words were unnecessary. The oathbound and the knight, bound by duty, each doing what little they could.
As pale dawn crept across the blood-soaked snow, Kael paused and let his gaze sweep the clearing. The bodies, the broken walls, the weary faces—everything pressed against him, a stark reminder of mortality, of failure, of responsibility. He clenched his jaw. He couldn't undo the past. He could only prepare, strive, and endure.
He stepped back, letting the villagers carry on. Tomorrow, the work will continue. Tomorrow, the shadowfangs might return. And Kael would stand again, for better or worse, ready to face the consequences of both his failures and the unrelenting demands of the village he had sworn to protect.
For now, he let himself breathe. Let the snow fall. Let the silence stretch, heavy but honest. The fight was not over—but neither was he.
Tonight, after he had done everything he could to strengthen the village, Kael would face his past.