The mist lay thick over Riversdale, soft and white as breath, swallowing towers and streets until the city seemed a ghost adrift between dream and dawn. The watchman on the eastern wall rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, squinting into the rolling haze that blurred the valley below.
"Can't see a thing," muttered Evin, his voice raw from the chill. He glanced at his partner, a young recruit clutching his spear too tight. "Fog's thicker than river milk."
"Do you hear that?" the recruit whispered.
Evin frowned. Beneath the slow lap of wind came a faint tremor, a rhythmic pulse, deep and far, like thunder caught beneath the earth. Then another, closer. The wall stones began to hum beneath their boots.
The fog shifted. A shadow moved. Then another. Huge, hulking shapes rippled through the gray.
"Riders?" Evin's voice faltered.
The mist tore apart as if cut by an unseen blade. Out of it surged the Ulvakhan sentries of Varcia, black-armored giants on armored beasts, their spears glinting cold in the pale light. At their head rode General Boyar, vast and terrifying astride Barou, his monstrous war-bull, the creature's breath a white furnace.
The recruit lifted his head, eyes wide, stumbling backward as his breath caught. Through the tearing mist he beheld the banners, the black sun on silver and the Crimson bull. "It's them," he gasped. "The Ulvakhan sentries of Varcia."
Evin's heart slammed against his ribs. The Varcians marched in perfect rhythm, thousands, no, tens of thousands, of boots drumming the earth like war drums. The sound swelled until it filled the valley, each step an omen.
"To arms! Raise the horn!" the recruit cried.
Evin didn't move. He stared at the warlord's banner, a black sun on silver, unfurled above the sea of spears. Boyar's gaze swept toward the wall, sharp as a blade. Even from that distance, Evin felt it pierce through the mist.
He stumbled to the great bronze horn fixed beside the gate tower. His hands trembled as he gripped it.
For a breath, Evin hesitated, still staring at the monstrous bull's flaring nostrils, the shimmer of firelight caught in its plated horns. Then he raised the horn to his lips and blew.
The sound that burst forth was mournful and vast, a single, trembling cry that seemed to tear the dawn in two. It echoed across the valleys and down the streets of Riversdale, waking the sleeping and chilling the blood of every soul who heard it.
Below, Boyar slowed his march. His spear rose in silence, the gesture enough to still a thousand men.
The mist trembled beneath the silent weight of his advancing host.
The watchman's horn cry split the morning air, its echo swallowed by the thunder of Varcia's advancing host.
Though dawn had only begun to bleed across the rooftops, Riversdale was already stirring. Merchants were unlatching their shutters, bakers fanned the first embers of their ovens, and the scent of ash and bread mingled faintly in the chill. Then came the horn, long, mournful, tearing through the stillness like a blade.
The sound froze the city mid-breath. A woman dropped her basket; apples rolled into the gutter. Children stared wide-eyed as mothers pulled them close. Doors slammed. The streets emptied in a heartbeat.
Atop the eastern rampart, Captain Limbé strode along the wall's edge, boots striking stone. Below him, the fog writhed and heaved, then broke apart to reveal it: a black tide moving through the mist. Ranks upon ranks, armor catching the pale light like oil.
One of his men leaned forward, eyes wide. "By the heavens," he breathed, voice trembling. "They stretch beyond the fields."
Limbé's jaw tightened. "Stand your ground," he barked, his tone cutting through the wind. "You're a man, a soldier! Remember that!"
The tremor in the air deepened. Hooves thundered. The mist bent as something vast moved within it, a bull's bellow, low and monstrous, echoing across the plain.
Commander Joan arrived then, climbing the parapet steps with measured calm. He was a man of solid build, his armor fitting him like truth itself. His face bore a gentleness that seemed misplaced amid the dread, but his eyes, sharp, unwavering, burned with resolve.
He stood beside Limbé, saying nothing at first. The wind lifted his cloak, revealing the steel beneath his poise.
"They're forming lines," Limbé said quietly, staring out into the gloom. "Each banner marks a host. And over there, their beasts, their standards, Varcia's mark."
Joan's gaze followed the captain's gesture. Through the thinning mist, the black sun of Varcia unfurled upon silver cloth, its edges snapping in the dawn breeze.
"They mean to surround us," Joan murmured, more to the wind than to any man.
Below, the horns of Varcia answered the one Riversdale had sounded, deeper, crueler, echoing like the voice of doom itself.
Limbé swallowed hard. "If we fail to light the beacon," he said, "Asteria won't see them coming."
Joan turned, his voice calm but carrying the weight of iron. "Then we do not fail."
The men tightened their grips on their spears. No one spoke again.
As the mist rolled back, Boyar's army took its place beneath the sun. Their banners caught the light, a dark forest of metal and color, their sheer presence pressing upon the heart like an unspoken curse.
Commander Joan lowered his gaze from the rampart. "They've come to drown Riversdale," he said, voice steady. "And we are the wall that stands in their way."
The tunnels beneath Riversdale were wide enough for men to march two abreast, though the air was heavy with dust and the scent of burnt oil. Torches hissed in their hands, their light trembling along the damp stone walls.
"Keep your heads low," Limbé murmured, his voice echoing softly. "No one speaks unless it's to pray."
A soldier near the rear whispered, "We're surrounded. Varcia's cut every road."
Limbé turned, his eyes glinting in the flicker. "Then this tunnel is the only road left. We reach the beacon, or Asteria dies blind."
The men pressed on, their boots muffled by the earth. Overhead came the deep groan of siege engines being rolled into place, the faint cry of horns beyond the walls. The noise made the torches quiver as if the flames themselves feared what waited outside.
For a moment, a far-off rumble drifted through the ground, so low it could have been thunder, or perhaps something far heavier stirring in the fields beyond the gates. The soldiers exchanged wary glances. None spoke the name they all knew.
Limbé pressed a hand to the wall. "He's out there," he murmured under his breath. "The beast moves."
They reached the tunnel's mouth, a wooden hatch hidden behind the old granary ruins. Cold wind rushed in, sharp with pine and smoke. Outside, the forest stretched dark and endless, the faint glow of moonlight brushing the treetops. Somewhere deeper within lay the beacon tower.
"Captain," one of the men said quietly, "if Varcia's scouts find this path, "
"They won't," Limbé interrupted. "Not if we move fast and silent."
They stepped out one by one, their breath steaming in the chill. The city loomed behind them, its walls flickering with the glow of torches as defenders held their posts. From afar came the lonely cry of a horn, Asteria's warning call.
"Faster," Limbé urged. "The night won't wait."
The men began their march into the forest, shadows blending into the mist. Every twig crack beneath their boots seemed a shout. Every gust of wind, a warning.
A faint hiss cut through the stillness, then another. A sudden rain of arrows fell from the darkness above the ridge. The men scattered, shields raised too late. One struck Limbé high in the side, driving him to his knees. He pressed a hand to the wound, the torchlight flickering against his pale knuckles.
"Go," he gasped. "The beacon… whatever it costs."
They hesitated, but his tone left no room for argument. The forest swallowed them again as shadows thickened between the trees.
A faint whistling cut through the air, then a sharp hiss of death. More arrows came, slicing down through the branches like rain. One soldier fell without a cry, another stumbled forward clutching his chest. The darkness answered their retreat with silence.
Limbé turned, shouting for cover, but another shaft found him. It struck deep beneath his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. He staggered, torch flaring wildly before tumbling into the moss.
The last surviving soldier, a young man with blood on his cheek and terror in his eyes, rushed to his side. "Captain! Captain, stay with me!"
Limbé tried to speak, but only a thin breath escaped. The soldier lifted him, cradling his limp frame, and began the slow, stumbling path back toward the hidden tunnel. Behind them, the forest seemed to close its throat around every sound.
From somewhere far off came a deep, distant bellow, the sound of Barou stirring in the hills, a warning that the night was not yet do
ne.
The soldier pressed on, carrying the weight of his fallen captain as the torchlight died between the trees.