The warning bell tolled in the cold night air, its clang rolling across the rooftops like thunder. Zeke had only just been dozing in his small straw bed when the first peal jolted him upright. He'd heard that bell before—during the goblin raid—but this time the rhythm was faster, sharper, more desperate.
He grabbed his revolver, slid it into its holster, and buckled on the worn belt. His boots hit the dirt floor hard as he shoved open the wooden door of the hut. The village square already seethed with panic. Men stumbled half-dressed, clutching pitchforks and axes. Women hurried children into the chapel for shelter. Smoke already drifted in from beyond the palisade walls, dark plumes against the pale moon.
And there—standing calm amid the chaos—was Seraphine, steel armor glinting beneath the torchlight, greatsword strapped across her back. Her eyes found Zeke at once.
"They're here," she said, her voice low but unshaken.
Zeke adjusted his hat, heartbeat climbing. "How many?"
"Too many."
The ground beneath them trembled with the thunder of countless feet. Then the first roar split the night—a chorus of guttural howls, hundreds of goblin voices screaming for blood.
The gates shuddered under impact.
The villagers screamed. Some dropped their weapons, others tightened their grip with knuckles gone white. Zeke forced himself forward, pushing through the crowd to join Seraphine at the barricade. He could smell the pitch they'd poured on the wooden gates, see the archers trembling on the palisade, bowstrings taut.
A booming voice rose above the goblin chorus. It wasn't the usual high-pitched shrieks. It was deeper, controlled. A figure loomed among the shadows—taller than the rest, armored in crude iron plates, and holding a crooked staff topped with a glowing skull. Its eyes burned with malicious intelligence.
"The hobgoblin shaman," Seraphine muttered. "They've never united like this before."
The gates buckled again. Wood splintered, shards flying. The defenders shouted. Zeke's hand hovered near his revolver, but Seraphine caught his wrist.
"Not yet," she said firmly. "Save your bullets for when they count."
Zeke swallowed the dryness in his throat. He'd been training with her for weeks now. Sword drills, footwork, wrestling falls that had left him bruised for days. But under the weight of the enemy's war cries, all those lessons seemed fragile. Still, he had to believe. He couldn't afford to freeze.
The gates exploded inward with a deafening crack. Goblins poured through the breach—green skin glistening with sweat, jagged blades clutched in clawed hands. Arrows rained down from the palisade, dropping a few, but more surged forward, climbing over fallen kin.
"Hold the line!" Seraphine roared. Her greatsword sang free of its sheath, gleaming in torchlight. She charged.
Zeke followed, drawing his revolver with a snap. The first goblin leapt at him, teeth bared. He didn't aim for the head this time; he remembered Seraphine's drills. Step, pivot, elbow high. He slammed the goblin's knife aside, twisted, and drove his boot into its chest. The creature toppled backward into the dirt.
Another lunged from the side. Zeke turned, fired once. The shot cracked like thunder, dropping the goblin instantly. His ears rang, villagers gasped, but there was no time to gloat. The tide was unending.
All around him the battle raged. Seraphine carved through goblins in sweeping arcs, her blade flashing silver in the night. Villagers thrust spears, axes, anything they had, desperation in every strike. Screams mingled with roars, steel with flesh.
Zeke fought, sweat dripping into his eyes. He used his revolver sparingly—one bullet here, another there, each dropping a target that threatened to break the line. Between shots he swung the short sword Seraphine had forced him to carry. His cuts were clumsy, but they connected. He could hear her voice in his head: Don't hesitate. Commit to the strike. A half-swing is worse than none.
A goblin leapt at him from behind. Zeke spun, blocked with the flat of the blade, and slammed the butt of his revolver across its jaw. Bone cracked. He followed with a knee into its gut, sending it sprawling. He almost smiled despite the carnage. Maybe all that damn training was starting to pay off.
Then the air shimmered with green fire.
The hobgoblin shaman raised his staff, chanting guttural syllables that curdled the blood. Flames poured from the skull, crashing into the barricade. Timber exploded, sending villagers flying. Screams ripped through the night.
"Take him down!" Seraphine shouted. She pointed at the shaman, but every villager who tried was cut down by goblin guards swarming at his side.
Zeke grit his teeth. He fired—once, twice, three times. The bullets streaked straight toward the shaman… and stopped. A green barrier flared, rippling like water, the shots bouncing harmlessly aside.
The shaman sneered, raised his staff higher, and unleashed another wave of flame. Houses ignited. Smoke choked the square.
Zeke coughed, eyes watering. Panic clawed at his chest. If the barrier deflected bullets, what chance did they have? He wasn't strong enough to get close, not against that tide of monsters.
But Seraphine was already moving, cutting her way forward, blade flashing, her long braid whipping as she fought. Zeke cursed under his breath and sprinted after her, ducking under goblin swings, shoving past terrified villagers.
He cut down another, parried clumsily, and then they were side by side, pushing through the chaos.
"You see it now, Graves?" she shouted over the din. "This is no simple raid. Something darker drives them!"
Zeke didn't answer. He was too busy staying alive. A goblin nearly gutted him—he twisted away just in time, then drove his blade into its ribs.
At last they reached the front line. The shaman stood just ahead, chanting louder, his voice weaving through the air like poisoned silk. The ground itself seemed to rumble in answer.
Seraphine raised her sword high. "With me!"
They charged.
Goblins swarmed to block them. Zeke emptied two more rounds, clearing a path, then swung his blade at another attacker. He was fighting harder, faster than ever before, not with the wild flailing of a desperate man, but with the beginnings of form, of rhythm. His training—rough, painful, humiliating—was bleeding into instinct.
And still, the tide pressed in.
The shaman laughed, a sound like cracking bones. His staff pulsed with unholy light. "Foolish mortals," his guttural voice echoed unnaturally across the field. "The Black Dragon rises… and you will all be ash!"
He slammed the staff into the earth.
A shockwave blasted outward, sending defenders tumbling. Zeke hit the dirt hard, breath knocked from his lungs. He struggled up, ears ringing.
Then the sky itself began to twist.
Clouds swirled, moonlight vanishing behind a veil of black. A monstrous silhouette formed above them, massive wings stretching across the heavens. The air grew heavy, oppressive, thick with dread.
Zeke's blood ran cold.
It wasn't the dragon itself—he realized that dimly. It was a conjured image, a shadow pulled from some otherworldly force. But even as an illusion, it was vast, its eyes glowing red, its maw gaping with silent fire.
The villagers dropped to their knees in terror. Some screamed prayers, others simply froze, staring upward as the shadow of death loomed over the burning village.
Seraphine raised her sword defiantly, though Zeke could see her hands tremble.
And Zeke… he could only stare at the crimson eyes blazing in the false sky.
The siege was no longer just a battle for survival. It was a declaration.
The Black Dragon had marked them.